This week flew by with that "week, I hardly knew ye" faux accent which sounds so twee and wonderful in a 1930s movie, but sounds contrived in an actual week. I had legal clinic until 9:30, which meant that I did not get to see John Leguizamo go "out of control" on ER, which is fine, as in my opinion the problem with ER is not that it is over-restrained, but that it tries to seem "out of control" so often that it seems like the placebo control in a double-blind study of dinosaur boneyards of shows. The adrenaline flows like body parts in the Monty Python parody of Peckinpah movies, and everyone is less edified in the end than in the beginning. I remember when ER had its finger on the pulse of prime time, and not merely on a rather errant scalpel.
This was the kind of week which lent itself to "two hours sleeping, two hours up watching cable", a Morpheus-meets-Jon-Stewart sleep that ends each morning politely at five, when episodes from the series Angel (always the ones from the wrong season or featuring the extraneous-teen-son-who-proved-quite-boring or the odd if-she's-a-convincing-goddess-then-I'm Jimmy-Durante) bring on that crystal clarity in which I realize all the untalented, arrogant or simply murky things I am and do and yet somehow both feel crystal clarity, self-revulsion and a kind of saving liberation all at once. Who needs visions when you have cable reruns?
I mailed out numerous CDs. I had someone use a charming freeway metaphor to express to me what wrong turns a remix I created took. I had someone else ask to use two other remixes in a film. We're going to see my father this weekend, and I am excited about the prospect. I daydream about fishing in the Red River. I imagine leading a beetle spin beside still waters, and restoring my soul, except that turn of phrase feels alarmingly sacriligious and not tantalizingly witty, so I'll no doubt remember it at five in the morning.
I'm eager to enjoy another day of work, another trip home, another Sunday afternoon at home, and then another week of work. It's the kind of existence that Sam Drucker no doubt would treasure, although Arnold Ziffel would know better than to wallow in it.
