Worst Side Story

So, a few days have passed. I watched a couple episodes of "Monk" and an entire disc of "The Twilight Zone." But there was that WEST SIDE STORY disc, still sitting there, still rented out, still unfinished, mocking me.

As I predicted, Jeff asked me why I bothered trying to watch WSS. He said I was under no obligation to watch it through, and if I dislike it that much, why not return it and get something I might actually like?

And he's right. I rent movies (for the most part) for entertainment. And if I'm not enjoying the movie, why continue?

Well, I guess I look at it like exercise. Nobody hates exercise more than I do.* I hate exercising a hell of a lot more than I hate being fat. But I'm not thrilled to bursting with being fat either, and every once in a while, I get off my puffy white arse and go for a run. I run for a little while, or I run until my body is heaving and I taste blood and wish I had never been born. Because . . . well, I guess there's no reason for it, really. I'd have to do it every single day to make a dent in my lifestyle. And really, what's it all for, Jimmy?

And people will tell me, "But don't you have a great feeling of accomplishment after you've exercised? A happy sensation of both burn and pride?"

No. Never. I feel that way when I've written a story that I feel doesn't suck. I feel that way when I edit something on the podcast that makes me laugh. I feel that way when I sing along to a song I haven't heard in a long time. I feel that way when I get an idea for a cool script I will never, ever write.

So why do I exercise? I guess it's out of some silly, stupid fantasy that I'll feel better and look better and people will like me and girls will love me, and life will improve. Funny, that.

Watching these movies is, for me at least, pretty much the same thing.

Years ago, I rented a certain mini-series (that will not be named) that literally everyone with a vagina absolutely adores . . . and I hated it. I'm using the word "hate" here. It was interminable, baffling, hypocritical, and made me so angry I can still sometimes call on that ire to upset me or keep me warm all these years later. But I slogged my way through, my brain kicking and screaming, the the eventual end (which was the absolute worst). Why? Because I felt I had to. To be able to talk about it. And maybe because I thought it would get me laid, who knows?

And it didn't. Oh, quite the contrary.

So that's why I haven't returned WEST SIDE yet. Simple insanity.

Rish "Benny and the Jets" Outfield

*And if they do, they're probably in a wheelchair right now, even though their legs work fine.