Musings on TV

Consistent with my leaning towards becoming either a professional slob or a full time bum (I haven't decided on which yet, lots to consider and frankly it just takes too much effort), I flipped on the telly. Since I'm not working right now, I no longer have to pretend to work by surfing the web. I can simply let my brain slowly turn to goo by watching television.

To my surprise, NBC was showing a bull riding competition. It's wasn't like what you'd expect of a rodeo. This was in some sort of arena filled with an awful lot of people, not off on a ranch or anything like that. They even had the commentators; you know those who profess to know what was going on in the mind of the rider, just like they do with other spectator sports.

Perhaps calling bull riding a sport is a bit of a stretch. Seems to me to be more like a skill like bowling, except with much higher stakes since the most extreme bowling injury pales in comparison to having your head pounced on by a very angry bull. But who am I to bash any kind of activity, sporting or otherwise, in which my people give all the other participants a run for their money? It's not often that Brazilians dominate a sport or, um, activity, whatever you call it.

Regardless, I still don't understand why bull riding is on TV. In fact, I don't understand why a lot of stuff is on TV. I suppose no one does, really. Maybe the thing with bull riding has to do with watching people fall off - which they inevitably do, usually in less than eight seconds.

I also don't know why people enjoy others falling, crashing or otherwise injuring if not their bodies, certainly their egos before thousands of seemingly adoring fans. Take figure skating for example. I don't particularly care to watch it, unless the contestants fall down a lot. It makes it far more entertaining than a flawless triple lux or whatever they call the flippy jumpy thing.

I'm not sure who watches most of the crap that is on TV. The though of having to sit through a rose ceremony of the Bachelor makes me want to vomit... bull riding seems like a culturally sensible alternative by comparison. And that is so very sad. Thankfully, my local library has an absolutely amazing collection of documentaries on DVD. I'm about half way through what they have available. I may be going though a couch potato phase, but at least I can say I'm learning something....

Zen and the art of sleeping

My mind never stops. However mundane the thought, it cannot be stopped: only momentarily distracted with another equally mundane thought or an act of biology, such as having to pee. That, or having a migraine or other biological function seems to override the brain, occupying every nanosecond of available thinking time - if there is actually such a thing.

I'm always in awe of the people who say they can meditate and blank their minds of everything. "Oh, you really should try it. It's absolutely amazing." Personally, I think this is impossible. "It just clears my thoughts and helps me focus." So you focus on your spleen, or on your breathing or think about your gallbladder. Whatever, it's still thinking. How is that different from wondering how ducks flying in formation decide who gets to go next? Once you get down to it, it's all semantics, really.

Lately my mind has been deriving sick pleasure in not letting me sleep. It just keeps going, and going and going and seems intent on bringing up random issues that should have been settled a long time ago. For example, during a recent night of sleeplessness, a few neurons got together to torment me on whether I had filled in my social security number on a government tax form some months ago. Not productive, being that there is not a damn thing I can do about it, especially not at 3:24 am.

When not preoccupied with burocratic minutia, some of my brain cells write stories, complete long elaborate short stories with a beginning, middle and end, of which I can only remember the first paragraph the next morning.

Ellen DeGeneres spoke of this topic in her standup routine some years ago, about mthe tricks your mind plays on you when you are trying to go to sleep, and the useless things it busies itself to prevent you from doing so. "Blue. I like the color blue. I should really look into that new laundry detergent." Random and more or less useless but they can't be stopped. Kinda like watching a marathon of some dumb TV show. You know it's dumb and wrong, but you can't help yourself.

I suppose it could be worse. I don't lay awake at night wondering what planet Tom Cruise is really from, or what shoes I will wear tomorrow (in all likelihood, it will be my new pink fuzzy slippers). I did however, for a brief moment, ponder whether "truthiness" was already a word, or if Colbert did in fact pull it out of his ass.

Shoes

Since I'm not exactly gainfully employed at the moment, at lest not in the sense in which I was accustomed to, I'm trying my best to be thrifty and not spend much. Rather than shop, mostly I spend my time walking, writing and annoying our cat, Tigger - he came with that name when we got him, so zip it.

Today I was exceedingly bored and beginning to develop a near obsession with a $165 The North Face jacket which seems to never go on sale, so I decided to go shoe shopping to see if I could shake the jacket thing. It's not even cold, so the whole thing is really irrational. I went to DSW to peruse and maybe find some chap thrill to apply my $5 birthday discount and thereby get enough endorphins going in my brain to satisfy the jacket craving. Every time I go there I hope to find a secret stash of Jimmy Choo shoes, just like a found my green Docs at Marshalls for $20 back when grunge was huge. Anyway, it's a fantasy, like owning a magic carpet, that I know it will never happen.

The closest DSW was mostly uneventful. I long ago learned that it is way more fun to go there during a downpour, because their ceiling leaks and there are buckets everywhere to collect the rain water.

They had all the same stuff, boots that don't fit my calves, ugly flats and lovely four-inch heels I have absolutely no place to wear. On the up side, it seems like kitten heel thing is mostly over, at least at the discount shoe place. Even I, the queen of ugly shoes, have standards and under no circumstance do they include kitten heels. Ever.

I ended up buying a pair of pink fuzzy slippers made to be worn outside. They were adorned with 3 pop-poms and because of a missing pom, they were banished to the clearance rack. The sale, plus my $5 birthday bucks netted me a pair of defective fuzzy slippers for $9.

As soon as I got home I cut the pom-poms off (like I said before, I have standards) and gave them to the cat, having turned them into instant cat toys. Tigger went mad, running around and carrying a pom-pom in his mouth from room to room, eyes wide open, ears pinned back and high on catnip.

While he sleeps it off, I lay on the couch contemplating my purchase, wondering if now it just means I no longer have to be just an indoor slob and I can look like one outdoors, too. After all, I now own a pair of all terrain pink fuzzy slippers.

Dropping the Ball

Watching the ball drop at Times Square on New Year's Eve is the biggest rip-off. It's crowded with tourists and, if you hadn't already suspected, there is really not much to see. Those people you see on TV, right in front of the stage claim their spots bright and early and basically stay all day. No thanks, man. Besides, the best part is seeing the crowd break up. Really.

People are cold, tired, drunk and prolly a bit pissed off at the non event of the whole thing and everyone trudges along to the nearest subway station, or the next, or the next... they are all super crowded and people just continue walking. There begins the fun. Eavesdropping is phenomenal, not to mention the things you will see. I'm still kicking myself for being so absorbed in someone's conversation I didn't notice Scott tugging at my arm to point out the people having sex in a parking lot off 46th street.

Should you be considering plans to come to New York next new year's eve, skip the whole Times Square lameness. Find yourself a bar, hang with friends, and sometime around 1 am, step outside to watch the revelers head home. Great people watching. Guaranteed.