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Little Sister has returned to the wilds of Bryn Mawr, having spent her mid-autumn break up here trying to buy a car. In a stunning display of sensitivity toward my poor, highly stressed sister (poor kid, the first semester of grad school very often sucks, and she's pretty unhappy right now), I sort of forgot she was coming. I mean, I knew she was going to be here, but I forgot the part where it was this week. My calendar-sense is not so great these days- things like visits, holiday weekends and, ah, Thursdays don't jump out like they used to. It is Thursday, right? The night when Nick and Greg end up hung-over and married and Danny apologizes to Martin in fun, kinky ways? Don't I wish. There's a North Country guy guesting on WaT tonight, some guy named... um... Eric Something (not Close, obviously. Dagnabbit). Honestly I wasn't much attention to the news story, so I have no idea who he's playing. All I know is that he's from Canton. Yay! If you know where that is. Which no one does. Still, I like knowing that there's another "local boy made good" out there in Hollywoodland with Viggo and Keen Eddie's Mark Valley (from Ogdensburg! Their high school is my high school's deadly rival! Woo!).
So now I'm even more behind on pretty much everything. Again. Maybe I should run away with the circus. Well, maybe not. I wouldn't have the patience to deal with the PETA-types protesting against the animal acts if I hooked up with a traditional Barnum & Bailey-esque three-ringer, and I in no way have the flexibility for the Cirque du Soleil-type of gig. I don't think the hamster wheel acrobat path is for me. So maybe I'll run away and become a blues singer instead. That I could do, middle-class white Northerner or not. My cats are starting to look at me like "If you listen to that Delbert McClinton song one more time, we are taking the candy and leaving" ("Leap of Faith," the live version he did on Austin City Limits- I'm wearing a groove in the CD. But they don't seem any fonder of Deborah Coleman or Albert Collins or Tab Benoit or even Dr. John. How can anyone not like Dr. John? Dumb ole cats).
Oh! But one amazingly awesomely stupendously fabulous thing came out of LS's visit (aside from the fact that I like her and I've missed her lots). She's a techy-type. She understands things that require adaptors and modulators and, and coaxial cables and stuff. She hooked up my DVD player! Yes, the doohickey that has been gathering dust on the coffee table since March is now a useful member of society! So naturally (after a brief panic moment where the VCR didn't work anymore- "Ahhh! I won't be able to tape CSI/Wat/JoA! Fix it fix it fix it!"- and she fixed it. Did I mention I love my sister?), I promptly tossed in The Storyteller and watched "The True Bride." Okay, Sean Bean is a sexy, sexy man now, and when I'm Empress of Everything I'll certainly have him bathed and sent to my chambers (or he can stay unbathed, I'm easy). But when he was not yet thirty, and was playing a gardener-turned-prince with long, strawberry-blond hair and an earring? He was the Most Adorable Man Who Ever Lived. Even if his character had all of five lines and spent most of the story as a troll's (sorry, "trollop's". Girl troll) kept man. I need to remember not to watch "The True Bride" and Stormy Monday back-to-back, lest I die of the cuteness.
Speaking of cuteness, I want to rescue David McCallum and Pauley Perrette from Navy NCIS (ah, redundancy). Ducky and Abby are such cute, fun characters, and they're worthy of a better, less irritating, less boring show. My poor little Nameless Tech Guy on WaT is probably lonely- maybe he'd like some folks with rambling anecdotes and weird spiderweb tattoos for company? Or box up all three of them and ship them off to play with Archie in Vegas. All your cute lab geek needs, in one handy place! Happy, happy thought.
How odd. For "shhh," my spell checker suggests "chihuahua." Um, okay?
Quite a good article on Joan of Arcadia at Teevee.org today. Better than Popmatters' take, anyway, though admittedly the former has the advantage of having been based on more episodes than the latter. Still, it makes me happy when critic-type people like my shows.
I almost wish the Sox would just lose already. The suspense is killing me. I would love to see them beat those goddamn Yankees into a gooey mush, and then I would love to see them beat the fishpeople (boo!) and win the Series, but they never, ever do when it comes to this point, and I can't take waiting for the axe to fall this time. I would never trade being a Sox fan for anything, but it's a stressful religion, as they go.
So now I'm even more behind on pretty much everything. Again. Maybe I should run away with the circus. Well, maybe not. I wouldn't have the patience to deal with the PETA-types protesting against the animal acts if I hooked up with a traditional Barnum & Bailey-esque three-ringer, and I in no way have the flexibility for the Cirque du Soleil-type of gig. I don't think the hamster wheel acrobat path is for me. So maybe I'll run away and become a blues singer instead. That I could do, middle-class white Northerner or not. My cats are starting to look at me like "If you listen to that Delbert McClinton song one more time, we are taking the candy and leaving" ("Leap of Faith," the live version he did on Austin City Limits- I'm wearing a groove in the CD. But they don't seem any fonder of Deborah Coleman or Albert Collins or Tab Benoit or even Dr. John. How can anyone not like Dr. John? Dumb ole cats).
Oh! But one amazingly awesomely stupendously fabulous thing came out of LS's visit (aside from the fact that I like her and I've missed her lots). She's a techy-type. She understands things that require adaptors and modulators and, and coaxial cables and stuff. She hooked up my DVD player! Yes, the doohickey that has been gathering dust on the coffee table since March is now a useful member of society! So naturally (after a brief panic moment where the VCR didn't work anymore- "Ahhh! I won't be able to tape CSI/Wat/JoA! Fix it fix it fix it!"- and she fixed it. Did I mention I love my sister?), I promptly tossed in The Storyteller and watched "The True Bride." Okay, Sean Bean is a sexy, sexy man now, and when I'm Empress of Everything I'll certainly have him bathed and sent to my chambers (or he can stay unbathed, I'm easy). But when he was not yet thirty, and was playing a gardener-turned-prince with long, strawberry-blond hair and an earring? He was the Most Adorable Man Who Ever Lived. Even if his character had all of five lines and spent most of the story as a troll's (sorry, "trollop's". Girl troll) kept man. I need to remember not to watch "The True Bride" and Stormy Monday back-to-back, lest I die of the cuteness.
Speaking of cuteness, I want to rescue David McCallum and Pauley Perrette from Navy NCIS (ah, redundancy). Ducky and Abby are such cute, fun characters, and they're worthy of a better, less irritating, less boring show. My poor little Nameless Tech Guy on WaT is probably lonely- maybe he'd like some folks with rambling anecdotes and weird spiderweb tattoos for company? Or box up all three of them and ship them off to play with Archie in Vegas. All your cute lab geek needs, in one handy place! Happy, happy thought.
How odd. For "shhh," my spell checker suggests "chihuahua." Um, okay?
Quite a good article on Joan of Arcadia at Teevee.org today. Better than Popmatters' take, anyway, though admittedly the former has the advantage of having been based on more episodes than the latter. Still, it makes me happy when critic-type people like my shows.
I almost wish the Sox would just lose already. The suspense is killing me. I would love to see them beat those goddamn Yankees into a gooey mush, and then I would love to see them beat the fishpeople (boo!) and win the Series, but they never, ever do when it comes to this point, and I can't take waiting for the axe to fall this time. I would never trade being a Sox fan for anything, but it's a stressful religion, as they go.
