Ramblings on politics, film, music, literature, current events, pop culture, lists, dirty words, trapezoids, birds, cartoons and any other damned thing that strikes my synapses. A 39ish-year-old freelance journalist and writer living with his wife and baby daughter in the hardscrabble environs of Oklahoma, Chase McInerney now spends much of his time frozen in stark, cold sweat-inducing, gut-percolating fear. For it will be soon .
.. yes, very, very soon.
Dearest Heather,
I am sorry.
You see, I was one of the millions of television viewers who didn't watch the first, the sole, episode of " ." How could I have known that the arbiters of popular taste could be so fickle, the gatekeepers of mass media so impatient, as to deprive the airwaves of your ethereal presence after one measly episode?
I won't make excuses. I know the problem is mine and mine alone. It's my guilt over excessive TV consumption which led me away from you, and into the seductive arms of books and music and competitive juggling.
Why can I not sit on my ass contentedly like so many others? Why must I crave more than another "sexy, single urbanite trying to find True Love in this cruel, cold world" sitcom? I watched your "Scrubs" episodes with near-religious fervor, but when you really needed me I wasn't there.
Perhaps, had I gotten over my highfalutin self, the uptick in your overnights would have melted the icy heart of some network executive. Overcome with humanity, perhaps he would have granted clemency to episode 2.
Just know that my feelings for you haven't changed.
I still feel like I did when I was ten and first saw you, or, nearly 10 years later, when you , into my heart. It's just that, well..
.
Maybe this is for the best. Maybe you'll find that this is a blessing in disguise.
With this "TV" phase out of the way, you get back to movies and full frontal nudity. There will be other parts. It's just that, right now, at this point in my life, this just didn't work for me.
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