back in the living room tonight watchin chris matthews with the fam, because my intake of media has been really screwed up lately. I didn't even know keith olbermann got suspended from msnbc and that channel (along with fox of course) is always blaring in the living room. This is what happens when you're confined by distance to people currently incapable of real communication, like my family.
I did however read somewhere recently that a TV show based on chelsea handler's life is being written. This upsets me immensely. I've always tried to like chelsea handler, especially because sara idolized her; some of the shit she says is funny, but there's just something about her that irritates and throws me off. I read her whole "are you there vodka, it's me chelsea" book last week, without getting out of bed, and while it was a pleasant way to spend a morning wrapped in my comforter the book wasn't particularly funny or well-written. there was absolutely no correlation or reference to the judy blume book she oh so cleverly adapted the title from, and there were only two themes throughout: chelsea's sex feats and chelsea's father's awkward encounters with strangers. she kept calling her dad shitballs or cocktits or some horrifying thing like that, which totally distracted from the insipidness of the book, not in a good way. I have to respect chelsea because she's a single female entrepreneur, and also because you can tell she'd cut you if she had to. but every time I Watch her on TV I feel like I'm watching a psychopath. that's the impression chelsea handler gives me, and now she's getting a damn show.
I can't help but think that I should be gettin busy writing a book about my life. justin bieber is writing an autobiography for god's sake so that should serve to inspire, if only out of shame. but how do you start? mama has always wanted me to write about my patients and the adventures I had but the most outrageous ones had to do with sara doing something illegal. the time we worked the warped tour, 802 overnights. sara stopping at rite aid to buy gin on the way to a nursing home. sara in the back of the ambulance snorting coke. sara stealing from patients. the book I'd write would be a warning.
if I wrote a book about my ambulance adventures it would devolve into a book mostly about sara, how I rollicked with her for two years, fascinated, following, observing with fear and excitement. I know I really am better off not being friends with her any more but I still think of her shameless badness with wistfulness. she didn't care what anyone thought, even if they caught her red-handed in a lie or theft. she was sharp and fearless and a master at manipulating people. none of my friends liked her; even mama called her "troubled," and mama likes everyone/doesn't care about my friends enough to know what's going on with them anyway. but (along with probably most young people) I'd never felt wholly understood by my peers, never had a best friend or even friends that weren't a little afraid of how "weird" I was, but sara and I completely understood each other. her utter lack of morality sometimes made me wince, but we nevertheless shared a powerful, frightening secret when we were together--that nothing really mattered. we were invincible.
I still feel that way some of the time, that nothing really matters when you really, really get down to it. when I'm doing something that inspires just a small amount of self-pride, like eating salads every day and exercising. as I'm munching broccoli or gasping to catch my breath running up a hill I think, who cares. who cares if I just don't drive to mcdonald's and buy a cheeseburger. who cares if I sit around all day watching tv. who cares if I waste, if I don't recycle, if I booze and do drugs every day and stay up til 4 am every night. why not? I'd probably having more fun and I'd probably be dead before I hit 40. are the things we do because they're good and right and healthy any more meaningful than the bad things we might enjoy so much more? who's watching, who cares?
I did however read somewhere recently that a TV show based on chelsea handler's life is being written. This upsets me immensely. I've always tried to like chelsea handler, especially because sara idolized her; some of the shit she says is funny, but there's just something about her that irritates and throws me off. I read her whole "are you there vodka, it's me chelsea" book last week, without getting out of bed, and while it was a pleasant way to spend a morning wrapped in my comforter the book wasn't particularly funny or well-written. there was absolutely no correlation or reference to the judy blume book she oh so cleverly adapted the title from, and there were only two themes throughout: chelsea's sex feats and chelsea's father's awkward encounters with strangers. she kept calling her dad shitballs or cocktits or some horrifying thing like that, which totally distracted from the insipidness of the book, not in a good way. I have to respect chelsea because she's a single female entrepreneur, and also because you can tell she'd cut you if she had to. but every time I Watch her on TV I feel like I'm watching a psychopath. that's the impression chelsea handler gives me, and now she's getting a damn show.
I can't help but think that I should be gettin busy writing a book about my life. justin bieber is writing an autobiography for god's sake so that should serve to inspire, if only out of shame. but how do you start? mama has always wanted me to write about my patients and the adventures I had but the most outrageous ones had to do with sara doing something illegal. the time we worked the warped tour, 802 overnights. sara stopping at rite aid to buy gin on the way to a nursing home. sara in the back of the ambulance snorting coke. sara stealing from patients. the book I'd write would be a warning.
if I wrote a book about my ambulance adventures it would devolve into a book mostly about sara, how I rollicked with her for two years, fascinated, following, observing with fear and excitement. I know I really am better off not being friends with her any more but I still think of her shameless badness with wistfulness. she didn't care what anyone thought, even if they caught her red-handed in a lie or theft. she was sharp and fearless and a master at manipulating people. none of my friends liked her; even mama called her "troubled," and mama likes everyone/doesn't care about my friends enough to know what's going on with them anyway. but (along with probably most young people) I'd never felt wholly understood by my peers, never had a best friend or even friends that weren't a little afraid of how "weird" I was, but sara and I completely understood each other. her utter lack of morality sometimes made me wince, but we nevertheless shared a powerful, frightening secret when we were together--that nothing really mattered. we were invincible.
I still feel that way some of the time, that nothing really matters when you really, really get down to it. when I'm doing something that inspires just a small amount of self-pride, like eating salads every day and exercising. as I'm munching broccoli or gasping to catch my breath running up a hill I think, who cares. who cares if I just don't drive to mcdonald's and buy a cheeseburger. who cares if I sit around all day watching tv. who cares if I waste, if I don't recycle, if I booze and do drugs every day and stay up til 4 am every night. why not? I'd probably having more fun and I'd probably be dead before I hit 40. are the things we do because they're good and right and healthy any more meaningful than the bad things we might enjoy so much more? who's watching, who cares?
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