(I don't mean to bad-mouth television or those it employs. I wrote a pilot after all. And if any of my five readers have a contact in Hollywood, please do not hesitate to share! Desperate times indeed.)
It just seemed so sad that the time had passed. Only that it had come and gone, not that it was any more wonderful than the here and now.
My nostalgia for a month ago brings to mind the first job I had upon moving to New York. It was in a cosmetics store in Soho (actually, Nolita, but I refuse to acknowledge Nolita [North of Little Italy] as anything other than a bogus real estate construct). I spent most of my days in the store alone, since there were very few customers and therefore, no real need to employ more than one salesperson at a time. I filled my hours reading and giving myself one makeover after another. The store's owner lived in Canada most of the time. It really was a pretty cushy job, though I often left the store with some outrageous shit on my face. It was a strange era for me, fashion-wise. Yellow eyeshadow, for example, is the kind of experiment only a bored makeup salesperson would venture. A smarter one than I would insist on a full wipe down before the day's end. Me? I thought I looked fierce.
In any case, the owner left maybe three CDs that we were meant to play at the store. Before the end of my first week, I was sick to death of the mellow Euro techno-pop albums. There was one album though, someone must've left it there, Gillian Welch. I listened to it over and over again:
And every day it's getting straighter
Time's the revelator