It would be interesting, wouldn't it, to watch oneself watching TV, to see the muddy mirror that the face offers the screen, the weird and slavish half-reactions flickering across it, the shadows of infant anxiety and sudden, twitchy brightenings--like a dreamer with his eyes open. I'd like to have had a camera trained on my face, for example, as I sat next to my wife and watched the first episode of HBO's new comedy The Mind of the Married Man.
It opens with two guys walking and talking in Chicago. "Donna found porn on your computer?" says one, amused.
"Yeah," says the other, dejected.
"Pornography?" asks the first.
"Yeah!" says the second.
"What kind?"