|Mine and Sarah Kate's prison has much nicer moldings. - photo credit, Liza Bennett|
Back while I was binge watching Breaking Bad, I thought every winnebago on the road was a crystal meth lab and that if I ran into my neighbors at Home Depot it was because they were purchasing hydrofluoric acid to melt dead bodies in their bathtubs.
So it should surprise none of you that while I was driving yesterday, I jumped to the conclusion that the woman crossing the street, donning a khaki colored outfit from head to toe, was an escaped convict from Litchfield Prison (#OITNB).
I am a firm believer that the only way to watch television is the same way one should eat Samoa Girl Scout cookies or drink Guiness beer. Binge it.
I live my life in six hour increments, not one minute more. Quite honestly, six hours may actually be an exaggeration. But for the sake of this blog, if it's not happening within a six hour window of whatever time it is, it means absolutely nothing to me. And I can comfortably guarantee that if it happened six hours prior to wherever I am in my day, I have buried it deep within the recesses of my mind.
I can watch the most compelling episode of Whatever that Show Kerry Washington is in, but I will not remember what the hell happened one week later, much less what the name of the show is. Plot lines and leading characters one week later - as good as dead to me. (Exception to rule: Helena from Orphan Black. Some things you cannot unsee).
I have even stopped drinking all together (exception: last night) to be sure my memory issues are not due to, let's say, too much drinking on a daily basis. And guess what. It's not.
I binge watch. I become enveloped in the world of my show to the point where I believe my reality is part of the plot. I finish my 10-13 episodes, depending on the program. And then I spend about a week mourning the loss of my friends (the characters, who are actually just acting, which hurts even more) before tarzanning directly into the next binge.
Tarzanning [Tahr-zann-ing, v.] - Swinging from one vine to another, most likely with a Netflix subscription. And the vines have 10-13 episodes of well-written and acted dramedies attached to them.
Any of you Orphan Black watchers will understand this. Cathy and I call each other 'Seees-TRAH.' I am anxiously awaiting the arrival of my own 9 clones, especially the Helena version. And I guess that makes me the Cosima of my clones, at least until Orphan Black introduces the bass playing clone in an all-female indie rock band who plays better than the boys and makes sure the fans feel like part of the family.
By the way, if you're not watching Orphan Black, you need to stop reading this blog and march yourself over to the television set. BBC America. It's all there on demand. There should be 19 episodes for you to watch.They're not even paying me for that plug. Surprise, surprise.
If you binge watch it, we can meet back here same time tomorrow to talk about it.
PS-Download a copy of my band's latest EP- Whiskey & Wine Volume 1. It's the equivalent of a tip in my tip jar. Seriously. The music industry is a brutal mess, and yes, I could have been a vet. But here I am blogging and trying to give you compelling reasons to buy my music. Let's see if this works: