Chalk

Being sick, I have realized how completely disengaged I am from television. Back in the day, I watched as much TV as anyone. The height of my habit occurred right before M was born with Melrose Place on Monday, NYPD Blue on Tuesday, 90210 on Wednesday, and of course NBC all the way through on Thursday (remember Mad About You? I loved Mad About You--I was recently married and while you couldn't quite call S Paul and me Jamie, there were enough similarities to bring it in close to home, plus that show was damn funny).

I remember exactly when I stopped watching TV: M was about six months old, and she started turning her head to the screen as I nursed her in front of my shows. Now that I think about it, that can't have been right, because it would have been incredibly painful, but basically once she started becoming aware of what was on the television, I stopped watching (this has nothing to do with keeping her from TV--witness our current Disney obsession--but everything to do with keeping her from adult TV, though why I would have thought Paul and Jamie's mild innuendo should be developmentally disturbing to an infant I have no idea).

I really haven't watched any TV since, aside from baseball, Olympics, Oscars, election nights, and, of course, Zack and Cody (which is really code for "whatever my children make me watch"). And somehow, I've become completely disinterested. I did watch Sex and the City on DVD, but even though I'm sure my life would be made better by Six Feet Under and The Sopranos, and even though I could participate more actively in water-cooler conversation if I watched Grey's Anatomy or American Idol (except that whenever I'm at the water cooler, there's nobody else there), I just haven't felt strongly enough about these positive outcomes to settle down to the actual watching. And while I know most people see being sick as the perfect opportunity to binge on junk TV, I tried to think about doing that, and it had zero appeal.

So instead I read old New Yorkers, and the real point of this post is to let you know that John McPhee's "Seasons on the Chalk" in the March 12 issue is superlatively sublime. This abstract is a perfect example of the inadequacy of the summary. Yes, the piece talks about geology, geography, champagne, grandchildren, and the M15, but it is so much more than the sum of its parts: just a marvelous piece of research and rumination, and beautifully written. Go read it right now!

(I assume any regular reader realizes that the high-brow impression given off by this post is completely inadequate to the complexities of my cultural leanings--if Star, People, or Vogue had been in the house, I would have so been reading them before The New Yorker.)