I Watched Fuller House So You Don’t Have To: Episode 1

My mother once told me that she enjoyed watching Full House to see Michelle “grow up” alongside me, as I’m a year younger than Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen, almost to the day. Of course, now they’re fabulously wealthy and successful in their chosen industry, and I crank out words for whoever will pay me while subsisting largely on 7-11 pizza. Take that, Mom!

I vaguely remember watching some of the later seasons as a kid, but I didn’t really get into the show until I was 16-17, when I started catching it obsessively in syndication. Even then, I recognized it was hokey and sentimental beyond belief, but I was a lonely and alienated teenager and to be quite honest, I didn’t care. It was soothing, a nepenthe for someone with a weird home life. One of my best friends got pregnant and had her first child when she was 18 and I was 17, and it was fun for a time to imagine being the Joey to her Danny, helping out and watching her daughter grow up. (Then I moved to Chicago instead and became the wacky absentee aunt to her kids, who are now 11 and 9 because time is a ceaseless horror.)

While I’m still reminiscing and in a somewhat charitable mood, I will say a few nice things about Full House:

  1. The actors were, by and large, charming and watchable even with the material they were given.
  2. The show did its part to champion unconventional family structures and challenge accepted gender roles in parenting, even if only accidentally. (1:10 in this video, from an interview with John Stamos and Dave Coulier back in 1987, is… not a good look.)
  3. San Francisco is one of my favorite places, even if techbros have ensured I will literally never be able to afford to live there now.
  4. Cute dog.
  5. …I’m thinking.

Anyway, the ouroboros of pop culture continues to devour itself. As you can’t avoid knowing, Fuller House debuted on Netflix a week ago and has already been renewed for a second season. I mainlined the entire first season over the weekend and am now rewatching it in finer detail, because I love you too much to make you do it. More importantly, I did it because I hate myself. Most importantly, I did it to mock and overanalyze it for the sake of internet validation.

I’ll be recapping one episode per post, and I’m going to try to make a post per day until it’s done. I’ve also been strenuously avoiding thinkpieces elsewhere online, in order to provide you with relatively unadulterated ~hot takes~.

Have mercy. On my mortal soul.

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What ISP even operates at the North Pole?

Dear Santa,

I know this letter is a bit late, in both the “you’re making your rounds tomorrow night” sense and the “I haven’t believed in you as anything but a social construct in almost two decades” sense. Still, there are some things you simply can’t ask anyone else for, either because you’re enough of a freeloader as is or because they don’t exist yet. Thus, please find my Christmas list below. (Don’t worry, I’ve already been given the gift of chronically lowered expectations.)

  • A simple, portable teleportation device without any of the philosophical quandaries that might be posed by disassembling my constituent parts and sticking them back together elsewhere. I will say I want this so I can travel the world on the cheap and see all of my far-flung friends and family, and these things are entirely true. Let’s be real, though, Santa; I mostly want this because my sense of how much time any given thing will take is skewed, and I would like for people not to hate me for my unorthodox approach to punctuality.
  • A mattress. I had to throw out my old one in June because it was collapsing in several places and all but saturated with cat piss, and in the absence of either the funds for a new mattress or feasible transport for a used one, I’ve been sleeping on a couch for the last six months. My lower back feels like small children have been using it as a trampoline.
  • A subcutaneous Klonopin pump that can track my cortisol levels and preempt panic attacks before I find myself curled up in a public bathroom stall trying to count tiles to distract myself.
  • A gigantic down comforter large enough to wrap myself in several times over. I don’t want to be able to see daylight. (why is this not a thing)
  • The restored ability to write three consecutive sentences without having to stop and insert a placeholder because my brain is working in elliptical orbits and I can’t make it power through what I want to say in any straightforward manner.
  • Fuck it, we’ll go for big pipe dreams. (I’m sorry, Santa. I’m not very good at watching my language. I try to hold my tongue around small children and the chronically infirm.) A modestly sized house in livable condition in or near the city that is fully paid off, because I don’t think I’ve lived anywhere in my adult life where I’ve felt justified in unpacking every single box. The decor can be positively hideous. I will welcome it with open arms.
  • An end to our society’s glorification of willful ignorance.
  • A bottomless bag of Sour Patch Kids.

Thanks, Santa. I promise I’ve been pretty okay this year. Hope you like Three-Buck Chuck with your snickerdoodles.

Love,
K

Senses working overtime

It’s been a while, hasn’t it, blog?

I’ve been writing elsewhere, certainly. The majority of my verbal efforts go towards work now, ’cause hacks gotta get paid. I come up with ideas for posts to make here, sure, and often, but I keep meeting a resistance I’ve been hard-pressed to explain until recently. Now that it’s gotten to the point where every scroll through my RSS reader or Facebook feed exhausts me, I think I’m figuring it out.

To state it as simply as I can: I’m overwhelmed. Information overload is nothing new, including to me. Especially to me. I’ve spent sixteen years obsessively using the Internet to try to satisfy every minor curiosity that flits through my mind. I’ve courted it from day one.

Lately, though, the glut of poorly-informed opinions and rehashed content has started to feel more like “too much” than ever before. And when you’re already depressed and well past the “it’s complicated” relationship stage with self-doubt, it’s damn near impossible to feel like you’re doing anything but skewing the signal-to-noise ratio further when you try to write down your own dumb thoughts about something.

Rationally, I know this is nonsense. Anything you write can shed light on an unconsidered aspect of a topic, provide an unheard perspective, turn a lovely phrase, or at least crack a joke no one’s thought of yet. I read things online every day that make me kvell that they exist, even as I kick myself for not thinking of it first. But is Sturgeon’s Law also in play? Of course it is. Same as it ever was. And most of the time I fail to convince myself that I can crawl out of the 90%.

(I recognize that these complaints are, in and of themselves, deeply unoriginal. I fear I’m straddling some line between teenage angst and curmudgeonliness. None of you whippersnappers understand me; get off my mom’s lawn.)

Is there a solution for this? Maybe not. Keep writing and posting and ignoring the sense of an infinite feedback loop? Gather my ovaries and get over myself? Get the fuck off Facebook for a bit? Probably all of the above. Stay tuned.

Only if for a night

Last night I fell asleep still half-tipsy on a familiar couch and dreamt I was thirsty.

Nothing slaked it. I downed cup after cup of water. I found myself gulping liquid from a boot that never emptied and never satisfied me.

We came eventually to an open green park with a glass house at its center, no more than a shed. In it was a bed, and as I hurried to the other end of the grass for a bottle of Gatorade I realized that in the bed was my grandmother.

I approached her with caution, realizing even in hazy dream logic what I know to be true when awake, that she’s been dead some three years now. Expecting a hollow-eyed cadaver, an overpowering stench, nothing more than bones.

But I opened the door and Oma turned to me, weary but lucid, and handed me a card, the Queen of Cups.

“Tell me what this means. For you. Tell me what you see.”

I woke up and chugged a glass of water. I told my friends a bit about my dream, about the thirst, but not the meeting.

Later I left and walked around the neighborhood to kill time before my train back into the city, watching the snow melt to creeks under my feet, ice rupturing like membranes over the oceans underneath.

Used to be one of the rotten ones

It snowed yesterday, the third-earliest snowfall on record for Chicago.

Hot Doug’s closed on Friday. I never made it down one last time like I meant to. It kept escaping my mind until the beginning of this week, at which point the lines had already grown beyond my tolerance level. I waited for over three hours early in the summer as it was.

I will be going to Club Foot one more time tomorrow night before it, too, shuts its doors. It’s one of those places where most of the stories I can tell are ones I lived only vicariously, but I have memories of my own as well. I’ll drink to the music and take pictures of the memorabilia on the walls and use the uncanny glowing hand dryer one more time.

The city drops its leaves while you aren’t paying attention.

—–

Today marks ten years to the day since I left high school, having tested for my diploma over summer vacation. I knew the anniversary was coming up, so I went back to my old LiveJournal and checked. (It’s like reading a stranger’s writing in places. I read what I wrote and find references and inside jokes I no longer understand. Other posts could have been written yesterday.)

I was seventeen. I had just started my first job as a dishwasher at a Thai restaurant. I was excited to start college courses.

My post from that day:

“I left high school today. For good.

I also applied to SCC today, and I’ll start classes in two weeks, if luck holds.

I just got off work (which I’m loving) an hour ago. Now I’m holed up at Bloodstrike. Soon, I get to ride home through the night and breathe in the fall air.

I love my life. I feel free. If this is adulthood, I’m not so scared.

I’m taking the bus out to Sacramento tomorrow to take some assessment tests for my English and math placement. Wish me luck.”

I could laugh or cry at that girl, on the verge of learning about work and distance and sex and heartbreak and blind unthinking fear, but still oblivious.

Maybe I’ll choose to love her instead.

We’re not so different, after all. I’ve come full circle, and here I am in the middle of another autumn, in a relatively new work situation, with a sense of independence I don’t fully understand and the perpetual feeling that I’ve gotten myself in over my head, even though I’ve always been able to kick my way back to the surface all these years. I’m still lugging around a heart that wants to be everywhere at once.

—–

This is fairly desultory. What it boils down to is that I’m feeling the passage of time intensely these days.

Here is a dedication.

“Happiness hit her like a train on a track”

It’s Labor Day, and everyone’s been rushing to get that last perceived fix of summer. Of course, they’re disregarding that the equinox isn’t for several weeks, much of August has felt like autumn anyway, and with the Midwest’s sense of meteorological humor we’ll end up with a heat wave in October.

I love summer as much as the next person, mostly because it isn’t winter. I’ve spent a long time trying to articulate what bothers me about the season, though, and it’s this: summer seems calculated to remind you exactly how ephemeral everything is. Some combination of your friends’ vacation pictures, advertising dollars, and the ghost of polar vortices past cries out to you with a resounding “Fuck you for not seizing the day hard enough. You are sitting in the darkness of your apartment doing crosswords, and you should feel bad about that.”

And you know what? Fuck that.

I had a great summer this year, flooded apartment and financial stress and intermittent crushing depression aside. I hit all the basics. (Barbecues? Check. Fireworks? Check? Frequent swims? Check. Firefly viewing? Check. Sunburn? Unfortunately, check.) I spent days tearing up Chicago with a motley group of lovable misfits from all over the globe who I am now privileged to call friends, showing them the city I love so much. I stayed with nigh-heroic friends for a week and wrote and ate mightily. I wandered my neighborhood playing Ingress and finding little waypoints I would never have thought to pass by. I played Dystopia Rising until my legs gave out and Changeling until my sanity did, and enjoyed every moment with those friends and those stories. I made my first trip to Gen Con. I spent my days setting the foundation for what I’d like my life to be, and my nights in thoughtful drunken conversation trying to process it all. There were road trips, and dancing, and blue hair, and you were there, and you were there, and you too.

A couple of weeks ago, I stood in Lake Michigan up to my ankles and watched the water gradate from silty tan to sea-green to aqua to that band of darker blue right where it touches the horizon. Then I went and bought peaches and ate one over my sink as the juice coated my arm.

It was enough.

I’m not very good with “enough,” but I think I’m learning.

Soon it will be fall, and that’s more my speed. In the meantime, I’m going to do less mourning the passage of time, and more watching. Just watching.