The college football selection was a little weak, and so is sitting around watching college football, so I instead viewed a cable showing of "American Beauty" this afternoon. I had forgotten about the dynamic between Angela, the beautiful but empty blonde, and Jane, the brunette who's too bright to hang out with her but gets stuck with her anyway because of high school girl power dynamics.
When I was riding the N home over the Manhattan Bridge tonight, there were two girls sitting on the opposite bench, probably around 10 years old, I guess. I realized when I was trying to figure this out that when you don't spend any time around children, you can't really tell from sight how old they are. I also realized that I wish provocatively-dressed underage girls would disappear, because even if you look at them for a second out of the corner of your eye, you feel dirty like Lester Burnham.
Both carried bags from the M & Ms novelty store in Times Square, but one was a blond pageant girl waiting to be, and the other was brunette, pudgier, nerdy glasses. As the train rolled on, the blond girl would get up every few minutes to check her perfectly straight hair in her reflection in the window. Time after time, idolizing herself, her mother with the same perfectly straight hair sitting and encouraging. I watched the brunette girl, all caught up in the other prepubescent girl's gross glamour, and I wondered how long it would take her to get bored with her friend.
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