tavie.com

Regression is comforting. My current nightly ritual involves watching old episodes of Family Ties online. It was my favorite sitcom as a child, not just because of my crush on Michael J. Fox; I also wanted to be a kid in the Keaton family. I used to have recurring dreams about it, discovering I was a long-lost sister recently adopted back into the family. They were so perfect and loving all the time, with the just right amount of cheesy, wholesome sarcasm; the parents sang together all the time; the kids fought, but also supported eachother. The elder daughter was borderline-retarded, always good for a laugh. The dad had such a nice, dad-like beard. Every kid had their own room, and the rooms were so big. (Alex's room was the coolest. It had something almost like a garret in it. Damn, I was jealous of that room.)

Now that I'm older, I don't want to be a Keaton anymore. My family's dysfunction is in its own way comforting, familiar, quirky. But I do romanticize the relationship between the parents, so beyond the realm of realism as to rival any of the great romantic twosomes in literature, cinema or the theatre.

Real couples don't sing together. Well, they do if they're singers, I guess.

Sigh. Fucking television makes us fucked up about real relationships. Which is why shows like Six Feet Under were so good. For balance and stuff. Real people find whatever falls between singing together and creepy, inappropriate sibling-stalking.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 10:50 PM | shower me with attention