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The self-proclaimed “ ‘freemen of Albemarle County,’ “ where Thomas Jefferson lived, provocatively declared there to be a “ ‘GREAT GOLDEN LINE [sic] ’ “ during Fall 1776 efforts to Read more
The post Elizabeth Tandy Shermer on Timothy Shenk’s *The Realigners: Politicians, Pundits, and the Quest to Govern America* first appeared on Society for US Intellectual History.
My time is very important, and therefore when I am choosing a TV show to watch, I need to know that it will make me feel more depressed than I have ever been. In fact, I want it to make me feel so bad that I see hell itself.
Prestige TV shows are my unique way of momentarily escaping from the harsh realities of this world, and when I escape, well, frankly, I like to feel even worse. I want to be very, very upset, to the point where not only am I watching a sudden and very jarring scene of a television show involving something horrific happening to a character I have grown fond of, but also I can clearly see hell, the actual place, with my eyes.
Listen to me: I want to feel terrible—and not just regular terrible—but more terrible than I have ever felt before, even though this is a “fictional situation” that “has nothing to do with me.” Because if a show is any good, it’ll make me feel like it’s happening to me, inside my body. Just how I like it.
Look, I don’t want to be just a little depressed after I spend fifty-two minutes of my precious time at the end of the day watching a television show. I want to be the maximum amount of depressed, and then go straight to bed. Eating stress with my eyes, then closing them and going to sleep—allowing the stress to chaotically seep into my brain and take over my dreams—is how I consume media. Yum, yum, yum. Let the nightmares begin, please. Best-case scenario, I’ll wake up more tired than I was when I went to bed because my brain has been soaked overnight in a misery soup. This is what I want.
Also, every TV show I watch must make me feel worse than the last one. This is not an easy feat. For example, remember that scene in Game of Thrones where that guy pulled that other guy’s eyes out or… something? What happened? Whatever, who cares, I can’t remember, all I know is that it made me feel horrible. I thought I’d never find a show capable of making me more upset than that, but, my god, I persevered, because, wouldn’t you know it, they keep making really depressing shows that make me very upset but also I deeply love them. What a rush. I feel like pure shit. And I love it.
By the way, not only do I want to see hell—I want to feel it too. I want to get to know a character, begin to admire them, and feel a warmth within my heart, because they, somehow, reaffirmed my faith in a particular aspect of life. I want to relate to them in a way that helps me realize something about myself and have an incredible epiphany immediately before they die horrifically, preferably for several minutes in a way that causes me to feel so fucking bad that I see right through my TV and into hell itself and also feel it.
What do I mean by “feeling” hell? Thank you for asking. What I’m saying is that, as I watch a likable fictional character perish onscreen in a super disturbing way, I want it to make me feel as though the flames of hell are overtaking my limbs. I want to feel as if I just walked off an elevator into hell where everything is on fire, and I am greeted by a little demon who appears cute at first but then opens its mouth, shows me its fangs, and slaps me in the face with one of its many, MANY hands. And it hurts. Badly.
What can I say? This is my favorite way to watch television. I like to feel so bad it’s as if I took an elevator to hell, stepped out of it, realized I’m in hell, am greeted by a cute-but-mean demon punching me in the head, and then turn around to see that the elevator has disappeared. And I’m stuck there. I’m stuck in hell. This is what I like. I feel so bad. I’m going to sleep now, and I hope I dream of plants growing out of a zombie’s face, just like in my favorite show. Sweet dreams!
You’ve been on the lookout for a cardigan in a color that’s less edgy than “fawn” or “heather oatmeal.”
You recently traded your favorite slingbacks for a pair of Dansko clogs recommended by your podiatrist.
You have a podiatrist.
Invisibility seemed like a really cool superpower when you were a child; now, it’s your reality.
Neighborhood cats have been following you home.
You have two pairs of eyeglasses: a regular pair and a “fun” pair.
In the grocery store, a trio of women in cashmere twinsets murmurs, “Her wizening is nigh,” when you pass them in the probiotics aisle.
Your favorite necklace is made from large vintage buttons, beaded flowers, and repurposed copper pipes. It really pops with a cowl-neck sweater.
One day, an unmarked box appears outside your door. Inside is a Lands End catalog, a pair of Active Chinos in an enticingly khaki hue, and a note that reads PREPARE FOR THE RITUAL.
You notice that the catalog has a discount code, so you add it to your towering “junk mail I may need later” pile.
The pile is next to your favorite candle, which smells like coffee and old books.
You have a favorite candle.
One wild night, you throw caution to the winds and sip a second glass of rosé while watching three consecutive episodes of The Durrells in Corfu on PBS.
Your doorbell rings. You open it to find three women with jawline-flattering bobs and fun eyeglasses.
One of them hands you a copy of Eat, Pray, Love and a Costco-sized bag of SkinnyPop. “We’re inviting you to our book club,” she says.
You let them in. Thunder rumbles in the distance. “Those chinos are so comfy,” says another, pointing at your pants. “I have a code to buy one, get one half off, if you’re interested.”
You are definitely interested.
You feel compelled to light your favorite candle. The women rhythmically chant the lyrics to “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” You wonder how old Cyndi Lauper is now.1
You suddenly feel a pervasive sense of mild annoyance at all humankind and an insatiable longing for a pair of capris embroidered with tiny martinis.
“Is Chico’s still open?” you ask, and the women all nod solemnly.
“The Ritual is complete, and Chico’s is never closed,” they intone in unison.
You find a discount code in your junk mail pile.
Once The Shopping is done, the four of you gather around a bistro table at a bakery café, clad in a glorious taupe-y rainbow of Sahara Sand, Toasted Wheat, Buff Camel, and Smoked Caramel.
After forty-five minutes, a young waiter asks, “Have you girls been helped? I didn’t see you there!”
You cackle in unison and disappear in a poof of burnt sienna smoke. You leave behind four fun pairs of eyeglasses and all of your statement necklaces.
The sacrifice is transient; you have a coupon for 20 percent off accessories at Brighton.
The waiter fails to notice that you’re gone.
1 As of this writing, Cyndi Lauper is sixty-nine years old. (I know. I’m sorry.)
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