Thursday, July 13, 2000

11:47 p.m. Hormones are such a blessing. That raging dance in your blood, that screee-screee sound in your ears when you can't get the newspaper to stay open on the counter and all the while, even when you first get up, there's the merry crunch of potato chips underfoot. What a joy! And a joy to be shared.

I like to share.

When the walls feel like they're closing in, I don't like to hoard that cozy feeling all to myself. I like to talk about it. I really really do and if I have to hunt Igor down, I will. I like to talk. Discuss. Review. Especially, review.

And now I will change the subject before I drive myself away. Let's talk, instead, about why Big Brother is a very Bad Thing to be watching. Or rather, why do I feel crummy about myself after peeking in at the folks trying to win $500,000?

Is it the cheesy CBS nearly live show with the plastic psychiatrist, hired just for the occasion? Or the Las Vegas odds maker, hired "just for fun" ... or the weeping husband reading a letter to us, instead of his wife? Ewwwwww.

I think it's the way that poor William looks at the camera. He's grandstanding and I'm standing for it. Or maybe I don't like to see people falling apart as much as I like to see people eating rodents. I don't know.

12:32 a.m. So, just to check on my own reactions, I went back to the scene of the smarmy thing and checked in on them. They seem happy enough. Much hearty laughter and very boring talk as that other raging dance of the blood takes place. Hormones. It's very nearly mating season in the bright glass house.

12:47 a.m. Well, that was a big computer crash I just had. I think I've got my answer about Big Brother. It's bad for my computer. Too much bandwidth, too much angst. The computer should be a happy place and the electrons shouldn't get all riled up. They shouldn't be pushed and crowded or they will release surging negatrons right onto the motherboard's lap.

That's the technical explanation.

I think I've finally figured out the emotional explanation. The thing that's been bugging me lately. It's the fact that as I watch these reality shows, I think I'm right there -- on the beach, in the glass house -- and I'm listening to the people talk. I'm a good listener. And then it hits me ...

... these are young people. These are very, very young people. Oversized babysitters, at best. Slightly older supermarket bag fillers. Not that there's anything wrong with those jobs, but ...

And something similar has been happening to me in real life. Not all the time, and not every day, but just sometimes. Sometimes I might as well be looking at a group of people through a television monitor because ... because ... although I am listening intently to what they are saying, to the discussion swirling around me, I realize they can't see me. I am invisible to them.

There is a great divide, and it's not made of electrons.

It's made of moments.