Joan's Journal

Hurray! Now that they've finally shown Sean Maher's episode, I never have to watch this show again! I was, I think, exceptionally generous to it. I gave it four episodes to either get good or get bad enough to be fun. But alas, it was not to be. An actress couldn't save the terrible, ham-handed writing, let alone whatever Jennifer Love Hewitt is (an android? a lamppost? a freelance lingerie model?). Her character, Melinda the eponymous whisperer of ghosts, lives in an aggressively pleasant town where the sun always shines and the dead never shut up. She has a business, sort of, but mostly she just wafts around in some of the least attractive girly-girl gowns I've seen in years (aiiieee, those fabrics! There's vintage and there's environmental hazard), clumsily stalking people to feel their pain and terrify them with the prospect that, at any moment, they might be attacked and smothered by either her eyelashes or her breasts. Her husband and her best friend/business partner are apparently saints with boundless patience and oceans of gullibility, er, trust. Do they ever question the fact that she talks to people who, as far as they can see, aren't there? Does the phrase "massive doses of thorazine" ever drift through their minds? Do they wish she would at least stop chatting with these ghosts in public places, in view of everyone? Of course not, for she is Melinda! Hold her while she weeps, for she weeps for the world! Ay-yi-yi. Every episode so far, and okay, it is a little unfair to twitch at this since the show's only four eps in but who said life was fair, follows pretty much the same pattern:

"I can see you!"
"You can see me!"
"Go to the light."
"No, I'm not ready."
"Sure you are!"
"No, I'm not!"
[some sort of touchy-feeling blather and/or "comic" scene. Or maybe Melinda goes to work at her fabulous antique store that never has customers. Just for kicks.]
"Go to the light!"
"Well, okay. Thank you so much, Ghost Whisperer!"
[tears all around]

It's a spiritual quest as hotel art, nothing so edgy or unsettling as to wake anyone up. Melinda's vibe is a bit faux-bohemian meets Thomas Kinkade. Blech. But while it's obviously not the show for me, I can't help remembering that Touched by an Angel was on for three thousand years, so no doubt Melinda will be able to flutter around blinking dewily at many a hapless mourner before Ghost Whisperer goes to the light. That's showbiz.

Anyway, tonight's ep had Sean looking just delicious, which helped. Pretty, pretty boy. And he got to be sweet and bitchy and devoted in a somewhat overly intense manner, all of which he does well. His dialogue was generally pretty leaden, and he had the stupidest death ever, but he spent the entire episode wandering around in one of those skintight microfiber outfits racing cyclists wear, which was nice and decorative. He wasn't in nearly enough scenes and that dang Melinda kept getting in the way (curse you, main character!), but overall, I liked his part. And... you know, I was just going to say, "and there was no necrophilia this time," because of his CSI: Miami episode, but actually... I don't think it was for lack of trying.

But pretty, pretty Sean aside, there was something about this episode that really bugged me. No, not Melinda, she goes without saying. ( I couldn't even begin to guess if people care about spoilers for this show, so might as well cut )

If you do like the show, please believe that I'm not trying to insult your taste or anything. Big Relic Hunter fan here, remember? Somehow, though, I just don't think I'll be joining any Ghost Whisperer fan clubs any time soon.

I had to laugh when I saw MaryAnn Johanson's post on Lawn Darts and the amazing fact that any Gen Xers survived their childhoods. Elvira Kurt used to do a bit in her act along the same lines, about towering jungle gyms built on concrete and metal slides at violent angles and, yes, Lawn Darts. Or Jarts, as I always knew them. Little Sister and I had a set, actually. Lord only knows where they came from, since they really don't seem like the sort of thing our parents would have bought. Illegal-in-NY fireworks, yes; giant metal spikes for throwing, no. And yet we had them, and merrily pitched them around the lawn, usually aiming for the snowball tree or the chicken coop (which only occasionally had chickens in it, since they were unfenced and free to wander the farm and preferred to sleep in the cedar in the front yard anyway. Anyone who tells you chickens can't fly is a damned dirty liar. Ahem).

You can probably guess where this anecdote is going.

One summer day, when I was about ten-ish and Little Sister eight or so, we were taking turns trying to impale the poor snowball tree, when one of the Jarts got stuck in the branches. Not a problem, as we had a big stick to knock it loose. So off I went, shake shake shake thunk, the Jart was free. And THUNK, a different Jart lands right on the middle of my poor young skull. Point down, of course, since those suckers were carefully weighted. Little Sister had thought I was safely out of Jart's way and slightly jumped the gun with restarting the game. It was totally an accident; pitching things at each other was hardly unknown when we were fighting, but only things like pillows and hay bales and the occasional very unhappy cat. Not weapons. And you know how cops on TV are always brushing off their worried partners by pointing about that scalp wounds bleed a lot? Ten-year-olds are not so casual about it. Eight-year-olds who think they've killed their sisters are even less so. But luckily we had sensible parents who were very close by and could drive like Formula One racers, if need be. Even more luckily, in this case they didn't really need to. I was fine. Not even a concussion out of the deal, just a miniscule scar that no one could see thanks to my hair, and enough trauma for the whole family. Oh, and a box of Jarts that was never seen again. How very mysterious. But I do feel a bit sorry for the kids of today, all protected and coddled and asbestos-free. Is it really playing without the looming specter of Horrible Accidents? Do kids today even get eye patches anymore?

Now, the time Little Sister pulled a hyuuuuuuuuuuge icicle down on her head and was, of course, gushing blood, and had the Formula One drive to the hospital on icy roads in a snowstorm and did have a concussion, that was rather dramatic. And we were even younger then. She was a fun kid. Fearless to the point of maiming. Our poor, poor parents.

Suddenly my new icon (from brave_icons, again) seems somewhat appropriate. How unsettling. And she is so going to beat me up if she ever reads this (not to mention my mom...).


Non-religious Yom Kippur traditions in our family being what they are, I spent most of the day reading cookbooks. Joan Nathan is always a good choice, as is my hero, Claudia Roden, but the one book I absolutely have to read every year is Mimi Sheraton's From My Mother's Kitchen. I actually don't cook from it much. It's full of yummy recipes, but in a lot of cases they're things for which I'd rather use my mom's recipes. It's a great read, though, with most recipes prefaced by personal anecdotes and cultural snapshots, and extended versions of the same, on topics like "Eating Out," "Sour Pickles," and "Washington Market," in interesting chapters between the actual recipe sections. There's something rather perverse about reading it while fasting, because it's a book ideally designed to make you crave comfort food. Just read this bit from "The Joys of Being Sick in Bed": ( Cut for length and tempting yumminess... )

Mmmm. Yeah, definitely twisted to read this when you can't eat.


Speaking of food, earlier I was hunting for a certain Neruda poem about tomatoes when I found a weird, cool, interesting site about soup. A fansite for soup, how could I resist (especially since it did have the poem)? It has lots of recipes, lists of appearances by soup on stage and screen, soup customs from around the world, soup in the news, soup history, soup jokes... lots and lots of soup. Very neat! And one of the jokes has nuns, so of course I have to share it:

At a particular convent, the nuns lived under a vow of silence that could be broken only once a year. One year, at the appointed time, the clock struck 12 noon as the nuns were eating lunch and one spoke up and said, "This soup is terrible." A year passed, and at the appointed time, another sister volunteered, "I don't think it's so bad." The following year, as the clock struck 12 noon, a third nun spoke up: "Bicker, bicker, bicker!" she said.

Hee hee! Okay, I admit that I'm easily amused when it comes to monastic humor.


My only comments on tonight's TV (remember when I actually used to comment on TV? Good times, good times): CSI, eh, but as ever, I love Nick. A whole heck of a lot. I'm mostly enjoying this season, but the past has made me gunshy. And WaT had much to hate, including the continuing presence of some jerk who has taken my beloved TechKid's job and will not give it back, and yet... was that Justin Kirk in the preview? Snarling at Jack? This goddamn show. It's an abusive boyfriend of a show. It hurts me and hurts me and breaks my heart every time, and then it waves turkey sandwiches and longing looks and Justin Kirk at me, all "hey baby, don't be like that, I love you!" And I go back for another week. I rue the day I ever fell for you, show.

Possibly it's just me, but... about those shiny new pics of Sean Maher that have been causing so much spontaneous ovulation the past couple of days. Now, he looks tremendously pretty. It would take a lot to uglify that boy, and these pics are not it. But. He totally looks like he's wandered off the set of some gay porn flick. Especially in the oral fixation pose. Not that this is a bad thing, really, but it does seem like a bit of a change from what we usually see of him. It's an interesting set of photos, to be sure.

Speaking of Sean Maher, while "typing" my thoughts on Serenity today (I have the thinking part down, just not the typing part), I've been working my way through the huge pile of magazines that have accumulated since the end of August or so. By November I'll be caught up. Except for everything I'll have gotten by then. Sigh. Anyway, the current issue of Starlog has an article on Summer Glau and how new she is to acting and blah blah, and I thought this quote was rather sweet:

"Sean inspired me and made me brave," she remarks. "He and I are frequent screen partners, and I was worried at first that he wouldn't trust me. You really have to lean on the person you're doing a scene with, and I wanted to do my best for him. I think he's an astonishing actor. He's so kind and encouraging, and we have fantastic chemistry. We're good friends off the set, too. I remember when I got sick, he would bring me vitamins and make sure I was hydrated. He's always taking care of me and putting me first. The way River looks at Simon is really the way I look at Sean. She adores him, and he can do no wrong in her eyes. That's how Sean is to me in real life."

Awww. They're just so cute.


On a non-Sean Maher note, I was also amused by a quote from Kmt's Fall issue. Kmt does fine on things Egyptological, which is handy, considering that's their job, but their pop culture refs can be a little... shaky. Case in point:

"Viewers who watch John Daily's faux-news show on Comedy Central may have seen the brief segment (aired 3/15) intercut with Zahi Hawass's comments on the Tut scan and Daily's hilarious takeoff on it."

Well, it's not like they're all that wrong, right? They got the words "John" (albeit spelled wrong), "Daily" and "show" in there. Dunno what happened to the "Stewart," or, um, the accurate information, but they were close.

One of these nights, I will finish typing my Serenity thoughts. A glance at the clock tells me it won't be tonight, though. Maybe I should start keeping one of those cute little word count graphics that folks use for their fic updates. Well, no, probably not; it would be far too depressing to see the actual breakdown between typing time and staring into space time. Best to leave such things as vague estimates, I think.

Well. I think I finally have my Katrina-related grief, anger, and irrational survivor's guilt under control. Now I just need to shake the insomnia and catch up on my sleep. Quite a couple of weeks, there. A break for us all would not go amiss, okay, universe?

I've actually been glued to LJ recently (and to the computer in general, despite my ISP having some sort of nervous breakdown), but I couldn't bring myself to post or comment. It's so, so easy for me to get out of the habit, particularly if my mood is less than good. Too many years of lurker reflexes ingrained by now, I suppose. But I have a handful of frivolous things I've been meaning to post, and goodness knows I have eighteen thousand comments to catch up on, plus there's suddenly a mountain of new fic on the flist. Fic in wee fandoms like Keen Eddie and Invisible Man, even. Be glad you can't see the freakish little dance of glee I'm doing. Anyway, all that's for tomorrow. Tonight I'm just going to jump on that poetry meme bandwagon, then hopefully (hopefully) get some sleep. Hopefully.

Please take my poll if you didn't way back when (and if you did already, thank you!). In fact, you can blame my poem choice on that poll. In part, anyway- I am quite fond of Longfellow, despite the generations of parody he's buried under these days. His poems get picked for a number of reasons, some well-justified, but there are times I find them comfortable, and comforting. Like baroque music, or a complicated recipe. A bit of structure and delineation in a world gone chaotic. It's either that, or wallow with some terribly dramatic, depressing, probably Russian poet, Osip Mandelstam or someone of that sort, and I need a break from wallowing.

Nicked from a mob of folks, "when you see this, post a poem in your lj." Longfellow usually lived up to his name, so I'll cut.


( Paul Revere's Ride )

So I took a break from writing my not very exciting poll (please take it anyway!) to do that "crackbrained pairings from your icons" meme that's going around. How could I resist when everyone else's results were so silly and fun? Except, well, mine came out sort of... scary. Like, in nine out of ten cases, the end of the story would be, "and then Blah cut off Blah's head with a rusty butter knife, because he just wouldn't stop talking." I don't think my icons play well with others.

I left out Lord Blakeney, because he's far too young for such shenanigans, poor dear, and also Nathan Fillion and Bill Moyers, because as the only two living real folks pictured, they'd be stuck with each other, and somehow I don't think the world is ready for Bill Moyers/Nathan Fillion RPS, you know? As for the long-dead real folks, Joan of Arc gets left out, because she's so "Joan+God4EVA!!!!1!!" and there's just no room there for crackbrained pairing memes, but Nathan Hale and Paul Revere get left in, because... um... because.

( On to the frightening wrongness... )

Hi there! I'm not really back yet. I didn't intend to gafiate in the first place (oops!), but being back and alive and interested (or even interesting) would require a real post, and a real post would require far more thought (and typing) than entices me at one in the morning. But spazzing about DVDs, that I can do at one in the morning, no problem.

And look! It is greatly to spazz! Twelfth Night! The Trevor Nunn one! At last, at last! How did I miss this until now? Only two weeks away! Huzzah and Kermit-y flailing! Doesn't look like it has any extras at all (sheesh, people, something, even just the trailer, would be nice), but still, cheap, widescreen, and un-wear-out-able is not to be sniffed at. My poor, beleaguered VHS copy can finally retire, and not a moment too soon. Yaaay!

And while I'm flailing a la frog, can I just say how amusing it is to me that the S1 Muppet Show set is fuzzy? The box is made of Kermit-pelt! Makes me giggle every single time. Being a super-fantabulous show isn't enough, oh no, not when you can be fuzzy as well. Hee! I salute you, Muppet Show DVDs.


And on that silly note, I hie me to bed.

So far this summer is not rating as one of my most productive. Actually, it's involved rather less productivity than lying around in a melted puddle, surrounded by melted puddles of cat, feeling sorry for myself. Occasionally the cats and I will look at each other and whimper. It's all rather pitiful, really.

I'm not even able to do nothing effectively. 'Tis the season for big, shiny, stupidly fun movies, and I've seen nary a one. No Star Wars, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, no Batman, no War of the Worlds... well, I'm okay with missing War of the Worlds. I love the book, I'm fond of the '50's movie, and the radio show scared the bejeezus out of me when I heard it as a kid (seriously, I had nightmares for a week). But the ads and previews for the new one have left me cold. A lot of the problem is Tom Cruise. I'm not a fan and never have been, even when he was sane (or at least quiet). There's nothing about his acting abilities, such as they are, that has ever impressed or enticed me. If the aliens got him, well, maybe I'd go see it. But no. I'm sure some supporting HItG!s who I might actually like die instead, and Tom and his shiny, shiny teeth and his "adorable" daughter live not-disintegratedly ever after, wiser and tougher for their experience (despite the fact that they have now moved from an Alien Invasion flick to a Post-Apocalypse one, and that rarely goes well). Meh. No thanks.

Still, there's one tagline for WotW that's been driving me nuts. I feel so geeky, but hey. It bugs me. Anyway, blah blah commercial blah blah kaboom! blah blah "look right, Tom! Now... look left! Good boy!" blah blah blah, and then we get the tagline: "We always thought they would come in peace. We were wrong." Wait, what? What's with the "always" stuff? Is Spielberg hoping that the audience has never seen another science fiction flick? I'm not going to sit down and count or anything (not that geeky, thanks), but I can think of a lot more "aiiieeee, aliens!" movies than "ahhhh, aliens," ones. Think about it. We've been invaded by Mars and by body snatchers, discovered (messily) a Thing from another world, faced down the Saucer Men, seen the signs, lost and gained our Independence Day, learned that "V" doesn't necessarily mean "Victory," almost had this island Earth blown out from under us, been eaten by Blobs and Predators, found that spheres and species are less benign than they sound, been controlled by the Puppet Masters, learned where the weak spot is on the Brain from Planet Arous (the Fissure of Rolando, of course), and found that space is always ready drown us in monsters, teenagers, bloodsuckers, killer klowns and plans, 9 or otherwise. We're not even safe from hostile invasion by plants, what with Audrey and the Triffids and the meteorite moss from that ate Stephen King landing on our doorsteps. If we are gullible enough to believe the aliens' pitch about intergalactic amity and brotherhood, well, surprise! It's a cookbook! And even if the movie itself should decide that "they come in peace," there's nothing saying that the characters within said movie will agree, and won't show up with pitchforks and torches, or tanks and howitzers, or whatever. Harmless little ET was chased with rifles and police cars and those freaking terrifying clean suits (no scars here, no sir). The aliens in Contact didn't dare come visit us themselves; they sent construction plans and some duct tape, and were met with politicians, preachers and pyromaniacs. And it's a good thing Helen Benson had better luck remembering "Klaatu barada nikto" than Ash did, or an already hopelessly mangled peaceful mission would have ended even more abruptly for Earth.

Anyway, my point is, we haven't "always thought they would come in peace," at least not in the movies or on TV. Not even close. It's much more flashy if "they come in vast armadas with big laser cannons and a hunger for the flesh of plump babies." And it's not like the audience doesn't know that. Give us some credit, guys. What a dumb tagline.

Wow. Am I really at the point where I spend more time complaining about the ads for the current releases than I do watching the movies? That's so sad.

I am watching Empire, at least. It ties back to that "big, shiny, stupidly fun" thing I mentioned, only with no annoying crush of smelly humanity to deal with. And the gladiator dude is most attractive indeed. He should just forget about his family and his duty and the Republic, pack up the boytoy, er, Octavius, and retire to Spain. I'd watch that (not that. Well okay, that too). And at least this week the sound and the picture were in synch. Last week, not so much; the sound was about 45 seconds behind the picture for the whole two hours. Nice going, Channel 50. It pretty much wrecked any potential drama, though I still enjoyed the show. It just switched any "Beware the Ides of March!" vibe for a "General Takamoto, the creature is attacking!" one. It's not as if it could make it any more cheesy. Maybe Cassius could threaten to throw that Vestal Virgin into Mt. Etna or something, though he is sadly lacking a big black moustache to twirl. That might squeeze in a bit more cheese. Maybe. Probably not.

I enter a lot of DVD giveaway contests. Most of my DVD news/review sites have them, and sending an email or answering a trivia question isn't a big effort. But I never, ever win. No matter how many maidens and warriors I feed to the volcano, the Quantum Leap or Deadwood or Enterprise discs I'd rather not pay for go to someone else. I guess the gods hate a cheapskate. So anyway, I bop on over to one such site to check out the latest announcements, doo dee doo, and see that, hey! A new contest is up! Which means the results from the last one should be posted! Off to go check... hmmmm... hey! That's me! That's my name! I finally won something! I won...

The Star Wars Holiday Special.

Dude. Dude! I've only ever seen tiny clips of this, and even they were bad enough to cause permanent brain damage. I no longer know the six or seven multiplication tables or any state capitals west of Missouri because of this thing. And now I'm going to own it? Universe, you are as mean as you are funny. Hee, I can't wait to see the badness in its entirety. I wonder if I'll survive it.

And I still have't seen RotS. More importantly, I still haven't heard the score. Oh, what a world, what a world.


Ow, my arm is killing me today. Not in the wacky fun Ash/Lindsey evil hand sort of way. Possibly in the Riker "aliens are removing and reattaching my body parts as I sleep" way; I really wouldn't know, would I? In any case, ow.

Right then, dinner, dishes, laundry and comments/email. Wow, this was a useless entry, wasn't it? And I didn't even mention my cats...

... for anyone who's gotten the cheapie Due South DVDs from Best Buy. Is the music intact? It wasn't an issue with any of the shows I've gotten from Platinum Disc Corp. before (not a lot of pop music in the Lonesome Dove: The Series, natch), but I hate to think of, say, "Victoria's Secret" with no Sarah McLachalan.


Doesn't this figure- The price point on the early season SG-1 DVDs has dropped enough that Deep Discount is listing the first five seasons at $33 each. Neat! But Seasons 6 and 7 are still $45, which most likely means that S8 and SGA will be too. Dang it. I'm happy for other people, though, honest. *g*


Right, gotta run. Is it sad that the high point of my week is likely to be the haircut I'm off to get now? Probably. But goodness knows I need it. I look like that sheepdog with the time card from the Warner Brothers' cartoons.