"We're gonna pass out on the couch, alright. Tonight!"

"Don't talk about anything else --
we don't wanna know!"

It's amazing how much television I'll watch. It's more amazing how much bad television I'll watch. Give me a rainy Saturday, a burgeoning cold and a remote control, and it's like hypnotized. (Some might say lobotomized.) I make no apologies even though I know how lazy I am. I give the cat a run for his money (and I use the word "run" lightly)! I only get up for more French Twists (Maple French Toast flavour) and the occasional bathroom break. (Some might also say that this is one of the worst days to act so apathetically.) I'm trash.

My eyes glazeth over: respectable screwball; promotional material masquerading as "the untold story"; cartoons I've seen a million times before; and childhood nostalgia, at which point my husband returned from a thoroughly un-potatoish art gallery outing and joined the sprawl.

Train wrecks; ghostbusters; overly smug pundits; eager enumerators; crazies and backstabbers -- they seduced us. It wasn't a difficult sell. We only spent about ten minutes with most of them, anyway. The ADD-ish attention span shouldn't surprise, should it? I myself can't believe that I actually took time out to publish this entry. (However, the attention deficit and devotion to the tube didn't quite let up when I put my mind to this task; prior to writing, I spent an inordinate amount of time reading elaborate Project Runway recaps. That's right -- I read a play-by-play article about a television show I'd already watched this evening. But as long as we're on the subject of PR, I would just like to say: Damn you! Rob and Brendan, for properly introducing me to this program and the shameful pleasure of hating Jeffrey Sebelia.) We will most likely, against our better judgement, end up watching this inevitable disappointment at the end of the night. And then we will sleep the sleep of the just!

I swear I will definitely get out of the house tomorrow.

TRACK LISTING: Black Flag, "TV Party"