Out of control

I’ve discovered the best thing for a pop culture diet (besides the writer’s strike, of course.) It is the remote control. Or, should I say, my remote control.

First of all, even though it is was created to fit perfectly in the palm of a couch potato’s hand, with contours along the sides so you could comfortably clutch the thing for hours while zapping back and forth between a Project Runway marathon and a Degrassi marathon, it lacks something pretty essential.

If you look at your own controller, you”ll see there’s a bit of plastic that you can take off in order to insert batteries. Well, mine doesn’t have that. I only discovered this after taking it out of its packaging. I don’t know if all RCA silver universal remotes are like that or mine is just defective, but there you go.

So I have to use Scotch tape to keep the batteries in place, and that’s been going okay for the past year or so. But now the AAA batteries are starting to fail. It probably has 30 percent of its juice left, so I’m keeping it going by taking out the batteries or rolling them around in order to jumpstart them to working for a little bit longer. It only works half of the time.

Yes, I know have to get new ones, but I’m putting it off for no good reason–I’ll probably cave around the time I’ll need something ten times more essential, like toilet paper or soap.

So if that doesn’t make TV watching hard enough, I have a nemesis. Its totally inescapable for anyone watches TV (at least in the NYC area), and it’s driving me CRAZY.  It is:

And it’s terrible. Oh, so terrible. I don’t know what bothers me worse: the jingle, a faux-rap about cable service compelete with annoying female chorus chant-sings the telephone number, or the random visuals that show some sort of pirate invasion complete with mermaids and treasure chests.

Okay, I know what’s worse: the song. It gets in your brain like fingernails on a chalkboard.

And that’s where my remote control comes in. When that stupid ad comes on, I immediately try to change the channel, but the triple A’s either don’t work or escape the worn tape and roll away to the darkest corners of my apartment.

Which means I’m left to to endure that commercial for thirty seconds, and that’s thirty seconds too many. Plus, it’s on All. The. Frickin. Time.  I haven’t had this much hatred for something insignificant since, I don’t know, let’s say red carpet interviews for third rate awards shows (which I might be watching on the TV Guide Channel on mute, while listening to a 2006 episode of This American Life about Amy Sedaris in a fat suit).

In fact, most of my TV watching is done these days without volume, just in case. The best way to keep my sanity is to go to a place that lacks commercials, infomercials, interstitials and coming attractions: good old books.

I just renewed Veronica by Mary Gaitskill from the library, which is supposed to be amazing and I’ve only read one page of so far (despite having it for 2.5 weeks). I guess I can do that. And maybe buy some batteries. But I think I have like two rolls of toilet paper left, so we’ll see.

And…I’m back.

So, the last post I wrote was back in November. What happened between then and now that I stopped posting? Well, for one, my computer crashed again. Right before Thanksgiving break, my hard drive imploded for the second time (2007 was a bad year for me and technology–two computer crashes and a dead iPod) and by the time I got it back, the holidays were in full swing, and then I went home for nearly two weeks, and then I came back to a whole lot of work after vacation. During that span of time I almost forgot this blog existed.

When a few friends asked me if I’d return to it, I 1) was flattered that they actually read it enough to know it hadn’t been updated in months and 2) wondered if it had outlived its purpose. Because I took an amazing writing class in December that got me all fired up about aiming to get published in big-time magazines and what not, and the habits from my pop culture diet plus the motivation of the class had me so focused that I didn’t need to keep track of how much time I wasted each week, or perform community service for the error of my ways. The first piece I decided to write was about, well, internet addiction.

I reworked it constantly over the course of three weeks, and finally finished it late Sunday night. I emailed it to an editor of a well-known mag at one AM Monday morning. Nine hours later, she wrote back: “It’s well-written, but not surprising enough.”

Ack. The response had come so quickly that it hammered me into oblivion for the better part of the week. I remember wishing she could have given me a day before rejecting it, just so I could have had longer time to feel optimistic about the piece getting published (for $1.50 per word, no less). And how did I deal with her kindly worded but emphatic “no”? By slowly letting myself return to the websites I had given up for good only two months before.

A week that began with such drive and optimism screeched to a disheartening end when I received an email on Friday from the editor-in-chief of a small but wonderful magazine I’ve been writing for. She sadly announced that her publication was halting production, at least for now. Devastated again, I took larger steps back towards my worst impulses, and satiated myself with other people’s words so I wouldn’t have to confront the failure of my own.

This weekend I’ve been musing a lot about what it means to be a writer–and how some people make it and many others do not. And I learned one very basic thing: I’m a muckety-muck who need to get her head out of her ass and push on regardless. Because that’s what writers do. It might be what truly defines all artists beyond their talent–their sheer perseverance.

See, that’s a lesson I haven’t truly absorbed yet. I knew of it, seen it preached by others a million times, yet I haven’t felt it deep enough in my bones. I think a part of me has always thought, “I’m talented, so I’ll make it big eventually.” Well, not so much. Not to put down my accomplishments so far, but in obsessing over what I haven’t done yet, I forgot how much I just love writing in and of itself.

And that’s where all the pop culture stuff came in. What was once a sincere love and enjoyment mutated into a way to not write, a way to ameliorate disappointment, a way to forget what was going on in my life. So this blog continues to have a reason to exist, in order to have one of my passions not distract me from my other, greater passion. I refuse to regress back to what I was, and I know I have it in myself not to do that. I just have to learn how to deal with rejection better, develop my armor, and keep on going on no matter what.

Here are two things that have particularly inspired me this weekend. I recommend them to anyone who wants to feel a little more in touch with person they desire to be.

-Once: Maybe you’ve heard the hype that goes along with this little indie movie that could. But it’s not hype, it’s the real deal. I’ve been dying to see this movie ever since I heard about it, and finally watched it on DVD this weekend. Made for less than $200,000, it’s about an Irish musician who meets a young Czech woman and they write and perform music together. A very simple plot with incredibly beautiful music. And really, just so moving.

The director said he named the movie “Once” because of all the men he knew who would hang out at bars and say “once I get a better job/make more money/get married/etc I’ll finally go out achieve my dream.” But they’re so busy making excuses they never just go out and actually do it.

In the movie, the musician receives the kick in the pants he needs to finally take a risk and record his songs because the girl believes in him so strongly. Their connection transcends sex or attraction to something more transcendent. To sample a taste of what I mean, watch this scene where the musician teaches the girl, a talented pianist, one of his songs, which they then perform together for the first time. To watch them play together is to watch them fall in love:

Now go out and rent it already!

-Why Greg Berlanti Writes: I’ve never watched Greg’s shows Everwood or Brothers and Sisters (though I did enjoy a few episodes of his Dirty Sexy Money), but I know he’s a highly regarded TV showrunner and writer. But he wrote an outstanding essay for the “Why We Write” blog in which TV writers, currently on strike, talk about what motivates and inspires them. I really like what he has to say about how he had to do a bit soul searching himself before figuring out why he does write, which led me to do some soul searching of my own. Also make sure to read comment #5 for really great insights too.

Signing off now. If you notice any words are missing an “s” that’s because the “s” on my keyboard is sticking. Orry!