ENTROPY: Like most people my age, I grew up watching “Full House.” Flat on our stomachs on the well-worn beige carpet, my sister, our neighbors, and I would gather after school and lie with our chins tucked between open palms, wrists falling asleep as the Tanners and their friends got up to their usual antics. One friend would pipe up, “I’m Michelle!” and everyone would rapidly lay claim to the three daughters’ characters, and before I knew it every desirable character was snatched up, leaving me to say, “I’m Joey.” I didn’t mind too much though; Joey was, after all, funny and beloved. And I’m sure a part of me realized that it didn’t make a lot of sense for me to claim that I was Michelle or Stephanie or DJ, since they looked nothing like me.
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