(I've been thinking that for a blog called I Am A TV Junkie, I don't spend a lot of time discussing my own viewing habits. I thought I'd get on that with something that's happening right now.)
Sometimes you cruise around the pay channel grid on the guide just because you think you should, especially in those days after you get the bill and realize how much you're paying for them and how few movies you actually watch on cable anymore.
At least I do. Sure, I've chosen TV as my beat, so to speak, but that should include any experience I have with the thing that hangs off my wall, that monster with the retractible swing arm. Or to be more poetic, that electronic window through which a see a world real and imagined.
Okay, somewhere in the middle is probably the truth.
Thirty-seven minutes into it, I find myself still watching 27 Dresses. On Cinemax. And not even in HD. And I don't wanna stop, even though I know it's crap and the plot points are so telegraphed that Samuel Morse himself gets a "Special Thanks" in the closing credits.
Yet I seem perfectly content to sit there in front of it, at least until I thought about writing about it. It's a shanda, I know. I think what I'm doing right now, this public confession, is my penance. Wait, I'm mixing religions, I think. Whatev, the guilt sent me to the 'puter.
I have a couple thoughts on the movie, though, that I really want to share:
Malin Akerman has a knack for showing up in movies that involve a wedding coming off sooner than expected (this one and The Proposal).
I enjoy seeing characters played by Katherine Heigl experience emotional pain, for reasons completely outside the scope of whatever movie she's in. Does that make me a bad guy?
I imagine that when Howard Dean was young he had a smile like James Marsden's.
In fact, I think the images below will illustrate this pretty well.
Young Howard Dean
Reasonably current James Marsden
Freaky, huh?
What really kills me is I know what's going to happen and I'm still watching. My remote control is working and I'm still watching.
I'm drenched in self-loathing and still ...
... I'm still watching.
Strangely, I think it's that I know what's going to happen that keeps me glued here. It's Sunday, you don't wanna work at all at anything, even figuring out a narrative, and I dunno if I have the energy to be excited. About anything.
This is my shame.
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