The TV in my apartment doesn’t get much action. An acquaintance, who would have otherwise thrown it out, handed it over to me a few years ago. I fold and stack textiles on top of its cable box. The DVD player doesn’t work. I’m not in the market for anything newer, bigger, or flatter.
That said, I just finished watching season 2 of Lena Dunham’s Girls, which didn’t tickle my fancy as mightily as season 1 did because there wasn’t enough of the off-the-rails British girl or the feral tall boy. I know season 3 premiered last night, but I don’t have HBO and may not see it until a year from now. Although I’m jittery with suspense about what’s become of the Brit (I heard she landed in rehab, but for what, and where?), I’ll manage. I need a break from hipsters, the Brooklyn ones in particular.
When Girls had initially been recommended to me, I wasn’t interested. “Post-collegiate kids desperately searching for satisfying livelihoods, healthy love, and general stability in the big city? I’ve already gone on that ride, I’m past that phase. Don’t make me keep re-living a phase when I was confused and crying two-thirds of the time. Go find a 23-year-old, who likes TV, to foist this upon. Email one of my little cousins, if you dare.”
Now that I’ve watched almost all of Girls, I don’t know if 23-year-olds would totally get it, however validated the storylines might make them feel. It would be like looking into a mirror, instead of through a telescope or a set of binoculars. A 23-year-old isn’t an outsider to what’s happened to her yet, there’s no safety or clarity while you’re still trapped in the woods. A woman can understand an adult girl better than an adult girl can understand herself; and it’s a full-fledged woman who can understand she needs to hang with more people who have HBO, pronto.
Such Masterpieces…My Masterpieces…
1 week ago