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Last night I was bored. I'd gone through the stuff on my dvr, was too lazy to get out a dvd, and for the life of me couldn't find anything to watch on tv. The old fogeys amongst you will remember Bruce Springsteen's song 57 Channels and Nothing On; I wonder if he knew that we'd be into the hundreds of channels now and there's still nothing on. All those frigging channels and not a thing worth watching. Well, after a frustratingly long time of flipping back and forth hoping that maybe I'd just missed something interesting in the listings, I finally gave up and read British history in the bath for a while.
What the hell is wrong with me?
My small apartment is full of things to do. Let's see... I could have knitted. I could have done any number of artsy things (art is happening again, by the way. The reason that none of it's been blogged is that I've mostly been blobbing around in my mixed media mess journal, and no one needs to see that). I could have baked. I could have cleaned, for Whomever's sake. What did I do instead? Sat around getting frustrated because I couldn't find any mindless entertainment.
Pathetic.
And it happens too much with too many of us nowadays. We're a bunch of Roman emperors, sitting there demanding music and grape-peeling from our slaves. It's just that the slaves are now television and the internet, that's all.
Next time this happens I'm going to force myself to start writing bad poetry again, you know. Even if it's bad poetry about the fact that there's nothing on tv, at least I'd be using my brain.
And if that happens via bad poetry then you'll alllllllll be suffering from my boredom.
And with that, I should get back to work. Edible plant program today; hope for me that we don't all get rained on. Oh, and speaking of edible plants, remind me to tell you about my wheat sometime. Yes, that's right, wheat. On my balcony. It's got heads on it now, so here's hoping...
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