I have started watching (ok, re-watching; fine, re-re-watching) the TV series Felicity on Netflix InstantWatch this week.
I text my sister: “The summer of Felicity has begun!”
(Two summers ago it was “The Summer of Daria,” which, granted, might have been somewhat hipper.)
I remember this series starting just before I embarked on my own career at NYU; recall the show occasionally being filmed around town, on campus; feeling like I was going to school with Felicity somehow, even though we never had any classes together; never ended up at the same parties.
Years later, it may have been rerun on W.E. (yes, Women’s Entertainment) network when I was living and working up in North Jersey. That summer, after my first turbulent semester teaching (just a year or so out of college), I spent far too many hours with Keri Russell (no relation) & Co. I suppose I wanted to go back: it was a way of returning; to New York; to university; to a life free of responsibilities.
Whenever I am confused, I seem to get tangled up in you, Miss Porter; damn you, Felicity! you siren. Let’s have a reckless summer together, shall we? Cut our hair short and take up art. Then grow it all out again.
Let’s go back: to New York; to it all.
I forgot how each episode in the beginning was structured by Felicity’s uncomfortable voice-over narration: tapes she recorded for her friend Sally; and then each episode would end with Sally’s somewhat pat responses. Of course, now I want to send cassette tapes to friends; but I can’t find my cassette recorder; and who still has a means to play tapes anymore? I love that no one has cell phones in Felicity’s world; that there are still pay phones. If you look closely, you might even see a subway token or two. And a pink Power Ranger. And Brian Krakow. And me, somewhere in the background. (I am looking.)