I’ve recently come to truly abhor winter. For a while, I loved it, because everyone stayed indoors and left me alone. I could go for runs in Prospect Park and not see another living soul. Then, I started working from home, and now I’m alone all of the time. One obstacle — other people — was removed, leaving behind an even greater obstacle — myself — and lately I find myself even more unhappy than I’ve ever been before.
In the summer, at least, I could spend large swaths of time outdoors. In Valentino Park in Red Hook, reading. Or at the Brooklyn Bridge Pool. Now, the waterfront of Red Hook smells like open sewage, and the Brooklyn Bridge pool has been dismantled.
The weather has been so fucking wacko that I’m afraid to leave the house, because I’m never dressed properly. I thought it was supposed to be 50 degrees yesterday so I wore a dress and a leather jacket. WRONG. It was 50 degrees with 40 mph winds, and I was almost stripped of the skin off my bones.
Last week, it was literally too cold to go outside. And this upcoming week promises only to be slightly warmer. Without any reason to leave, I am trapped here. Which is why I feel justified watching as much television as I can find on Project Free TV, my new illegal download site.
This morning, I’m all riled up about Girls, the season premiere of which I watched last night. In the break between seasons, I chalked up the furor I feel over the show to jealousy. But what I realized last night was that I’m not jealous at all—in fact, a large part of me wants to root for Lena Dunham, who is a young, talented woman who made a good film named Tiny Furniture.
I hopefully will have something more articulate to say about the matter in the future, but all I can post now is what I just wrote to a friend on GChat:
By Bianca Ozeri
When Brie asked me to write a post on GIRLS, I got nervous because she hates the show and I love the show and sometimes I mistake disagreeing with Brie for cultural ineptitude. Which, she tells me, really is a mistake given that she still listens to Lana Del Rey. So, yes, I love GIRLS. Lena Dunham has, to me, hit the proverbial nail right on the head.
More than a voluntary choice, this adoration feels the only option in order to maintain my dignity. For every Sunday, during HBO’s shit slot, I watch a simulation of my life. I have three primary girlfriends who compositely exhibit qualities of comical ignorance, serious priggishness, and chic wisdom (myself included). We’ve had dance parties to Robyn. We’ve lived together when we shouldn’t. Virginity still looms for one of us. We’ve dealt with death together (not that of an unborn fetus, but still). And now that I’ve written out what I thought an uncanny likeness, I realize that it’s pretty cookie-cutter, and you, if you’re a girl, probably (hopefully!) draw the same parallels.
(Clara, absent, takes a brilliant photo)
It was posed to me, last week, that the reason why I don’t like Girls is because I’m jealous of Lena Dunham, who, unlike me, is a successful writer who makes real money. “That is definitely part of it,” I admitted outright.
But it’s not the only reason, I tried to argue, to a chorus of people proclaiming that it directly mirrors their own lives. “I can relate to it,” they intoned. “I am LenaDunham. Her best friends. I know the dudes they date. I live in her apartment in Greenpoint. I have HPV. Do you like my tattoos? My generation.”
“Does no one else watch this tv show?” I asked them. “Because it’s really not that good.”
But my protests fell on deaf ears. After the backlash that ensued after the first episode, which was as ridiculous as the florid praise that came before it, anyone who watches it is weary of having an individual opinion. If you hate it, you might disagree with real cultural critics. And if you love it, then you encounter people like me, who want to argue with you about it until you cry.
I don’t have very much to say about the second episode of Girls, because I didn’t hate it as much as I did the first one, and I also am having trouble remembering what even happened. These are the notes that I wrote to myself while watching the episode:
Jobs that are boring
Happy with these lives??
Whatever they want!
50 Shades of Gray
So cute at interviews. Oh my god!!
Which basically just reads like a summary of any given New York Magazine cover article.
My main take-away was that the way sex is portrayed is irritating, because the show makes it seem like “girls” don’t enjoy it. They just have it because they know they’re supposed to be sexually active, in the same way they know that they should probably get jobs. Having sex seems like nothing more than a penance for being fucking alive.
(Please don’t continue to read this post if you’re related to me.)
I was wondering why Lena Dunham’s new show on HBO, “GIRLS,” got the bitch slot (10:30pm) on the Sunday night line-up, despite all of the glowing reviews in the media. Or at least the New York-centric, witty pop culture media that defines my worldview.
After watching it last night, I think I know why. Despite the fact that New Yorker television critic Emily Nussbaum describes herself as “a goner, a convert” for the show, and even though writers like Frank Bruni seem to think that it defines the way that the rising generation of women feel about sex, the network executives aren’t sure it’s that good.
And, if the first episode is any indication, it’s not. I say this with a twinge of envy-relief—and also with disappointment, because I find Lena Dunham to be really endearing, the kind of girl you’d immediately want to be friends with—but the show was dull, confusing, and myopic. “This is what middle-aged well-educated white people WANT to think 24-year-olds are like today!” I thought, as I continually checked the clock from 10:33pm until 11:04pm, waiting for the minute when I could, with good conscious, turn off the television and go to sleep.
Because from the moment that Lena appeared on the screen as Hannah, a young woman from the Midwest who has been living on her parent’s dime in New York for the past two years, to the first time she referenced how hard it is to get a job in this economy—in the publishing industry, no less, which doesn’t even pay living wages for its executives, thereby rendering a quest for a salary almost superfluous— to the awkward, uninspired sex between Hannah and her worm bellied loser of a lover, to the final scene in which Hannah, on her own, walks bravely past a TAXI CAB, Carrie-style, towards the subway, I was fucking bored.