I'm a filthy rich real estate investor in New York; At the moment I'm sipping on my scotch in the back seat of my limo, slightly buzzed, stuck in traffic on fifth avenue, watching a cheap drama on the tilted flat screen in front of me. I've been watching this movie for quite some time now, almost thirty years, but the limo doesn't move, and as pulp and pathetic as the plot is I still like to know how it all ends, so I keep watching...

It's about yet another average joe, average height, average weight, average eye color, average IQ, average income, average sense of humor, short hair, averaged out by his long nose. He too hates his job, he too thinks he's bored, he too feels ripped off, he too believes he's different. The plot, if any, is excruciatingly incoherent. It's sort of a reality show slash stand up comedy, only it's not funny. Think un-american idol with only one contestant who keeps qualifying due to lack of competition, think a kpbs special on jim smith : the nonachievement, demotivation and narcissism. The episodes resemble those of the twilight zone's, not related at all, yet consistently vague and ambiguous.

I sometimes wish I could have had his life, sometimes pitty the guy, sometimes stop watching him repeating his mistakes for the gizillionth time, no i don't, i can't, i just can't stop watching him. This last episode started on a thursday evening, supposedly after an eleven hour workday. He heads off to a bar to meet some people, a flashback from last week recalls he's told some guys he'll be there for the happy hour. Scotch on rocks, again, and again, and then it's the dark ale on tap marathon, british malt only, makes him feel intellectual. He'll be playing tennis at 6am, meeting with boss at 8am, a conference call at 10 and a support session at 2pm. Instead by 11:32pm he heads home, packs, calls his usual rebound, picks her up, leaves for vegas.

Now one might sense some spontaneity in his impromptu escape from his mundane dailiness, but the avid follower of this show knows better. Spontaneity conceptually holds only in contrast to a perfectly and precisely planned routine which would otherwise entail, and yet his life is anything but. Indecisiveness is often underestimated on its strong drive towards chaos, a particle of no momentum would join each and every flow with no resistance whatsoever, and so does he, goes with every single flow, every other way, be it a rank in a national test, be it an admission to some degree program he utterly despises, be it an impulsive urge to break free.

He wakes up in the next scene in his bed on a monday morning, sober for the first time in seventy two hours or so, takes a shower, heads for work, and stares at his monitor. An average few days and a few hundred bucks, an average weekend, average drinks, average sex, average seasoning on the steak. I sometimes hate the guy with my guts, I sometimes wish I could live his life for one day, I sometimes do, I sometimes don't, regardless, I can't stop watching, the scotch keeps me going, and the traffic never moves.