Flash the Virgin

Hello, readers.

Two things.

1) Jane the Virgin reminds me of Wonderfalls and Pushing Daisies and these are delightful things to be reminded of while watching television as very few moments while watching television do I think, oh, but THIS NARRATOR MAKES EVERYTHING SO MUCH BETTER. And so, when it happens, when I’m watching the travails of a curmudgeonly young woman surrounded by inanimate ephemera what give voice to her subconscious desires, or pie makers who kill and grant life with a touch, or, as with this new tv show, Jane the Virgin, I watch a young woman witness her life fall into a melodramatic orbit reminiscent of the telenovelas she loves, I take note, I smile, I think. Cool. I’ll give this a try.

2) After watching ten minutes of The Flash, the latest in the forever neverending run of our current superheroic culture, two things occurred to me.

a) Barry Allen’s father is the actor who played The Flash in that other TV adaptation of The Flash which feels like it was a dream I had once.

b) This, and Gotham, are both attempting to inject some silliness and fun and, while Gotham is hindered by the fact that ultimately it must, in order to succeed, be something of a tragedy such that Batman is required to exist, the Flash is not hindered by anything other than TV special effects. Point, Flash.

It’s blustery today. Blustery is an important word in Gary Shytengart’s Super Sad True Love Story. There’s apparently a hurricane landing in northwest England. In London, this has meant bursts of wind that bring to mind the fastest man in the world running past you and knocking you back with his wake.

Also, I have begun reading Looking for Alaska and am in love with the phrase, THE GREAT PERHAPS. It’s a good phrase.

Happy Tuesday, readers.

ttfn.

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