Coming soon: the story of the riot that was my weekend. And for those that think I’m speaking figuratively, remember that I work at a saloon bar on Saturday nights…
In the meantime, get on over to Something Positive, keeping in mind that every time you laugh, a piece of you is condemned to hell.
Maybe I’m just getting old, and I’m finally at that cynical place where you start believing things like “All the good ideas have already seen fruition.” Maybe I’m too busy with work and music and Interplanetary to enjoy rest that doesn’t involve sleep properly. Maybe it’s just a midseason lag.
Or perhaps the shows that I have become so enamored of have just eaten their own tails.
Yes, I know I need to start watching Heroes, but I’m halfway uninspired, and halfway convinced that I’ll fall madly in love with it, obsessively getting to my television set three minutes before whatever time it comes on*, ignoring phone calls and shushing the wife… and then it, too, will become 24, Lost, and Scrubs. And I will finally fly to Los Angeles and go postal on a large subset of an industry.
No, not the drug lords.
To be fair, all three are picking up, about half-way each through their respective seasons. But Scrubs nearly drifted away with all the baby talk early on, the writers of Lost are either full of themselves or have to come up with a way to drag out a three-season idea indefinitely (seriously, an answer or two to keep the list of mysteries down to a single leather-bound tome would be nice), and 24 is suddenly spending every season trying to top itself.
Look, nobody’s happier with the idea of a large chunk of LA taken out in a single nuclear blast than me, but one, how do you top that for the next 20 hours of the season? And two, it’s suddenly not hard to imagine the writers seriously consider an alien invasion of Earth for season seven, where South America gets microwaved into the fifth dimension (probably with someone Jack’s related to on vacation in Buenos Aires) somewhere along the way.
I don’t really worry too much about that, because in space, no one can hear you say “Damn it!”
So given that my three remaining TV shows are all teetering perilously close to Ouroboros-dom, I have a wish (and I’m willing to pretend that I’m in the final stages of terminal cancer, if that helps further my cause): give me a final, season closing, three-part epic that spans shows. Have the Lost gang end up finding a hatch that somehow opens into Sacred Heart hospital (it can be staffed by no one but Dr. Cox and Janitor, if necessary, though I can imagine some entertainment if Sawyer and Sarah Chalke’s Eliot were to meet). Just as Cox is teaching much needed life lessons to Hurley and the gang, Jack Bauer burst in to discover: behind the nuclear threats of this season stands Gil Grissom (turns out years of obsessing over bugs pushed him right the fuck over the edge) and Chloe. All the gangs team up and take Gil down, who is finally led away by Bill Buchanan and Det. Brass muttering, “I would have gotten away with it if it wasn’t for you meddling kids!”
Chloe escapes, of course, because someone’s gotta sell the secret blueprints of Earth’s government buildings to the Martians.
*No, I have no DVR, and you people always spoil things for me if I don’t watch them immediately anyway.
Busy working too many jobs and wearing too many hats. Still alive, and occasional inspired by sickly sweet news stories about best friends that will one day eat each other.
But isn’t that the way of the world? Grow up thick as thieves, and then one day, you lean over, open wide, and swallow their soul?
Actually, the signal of Armageddon is me listening to country music.
Why am I watching this? Why? It’s not unlike a car wreck, where you’re horrified but part of you wants to see how bad it was, or maybe if someone you know is involved. Or porn, in the same ways.
And why are the losers reacting so violently? I can understand disappointment — we’ve all been in competition for something, and it’s a tremendous letdown to not win. It’s not the end of the world, it’s not death, it’s not anything worth crying about. The people that make it through to the very end and then lose? Okay, you’ve worked hard, and it certainly sucks more the closer to the finish line you fall. Been there, too.
I really hate zealots — really, really hate them. Can’t stand listening to them. I lose any valid points they might make in the blathering invective they spew.
This includes the Mac zealots — the ones who insist that PCs suck, and that Macs are better, period. PCs have no good use. Macs blow them out of the water. Macs are, in fact, the second coming of Christ and would, in fact, walk on water and heal the sick if only they had arms and legs — something I hear might be announced at next year’s MacWorld.
And I thought about writing something like this for about a year now, only Sarah did it better than me.
I dream of a follow up to the surgery commercial where it’s three years down the road and the PC is going back in for another upgrade and the Mac says goodbye, very sad. And the PC says, “Mac? It’s okay. I’ll see you in a couple hours.”
And Mac says, “No, you won’t. They’ve got some new standards for me, so I won’t be coming back.”
So go read, now. Move along…
Was that Byron? I think maybe so.
Today’s conversation:
Me: Hey, Cthulhu, guess what? Me and CL got married this morning!
Incredulous Cthulhu ganked from Matthew Baldwin, who brings the Haha often.
There are bookstores — I’ve been in them — that are treasure troves crossed with nightmares. You never know what you might find, but that’s primarily because you have no idea where to start looking — and gods help you if you are in search of something specific. There are boxes everywhere, on and under shelves that sag threateningly under the weight of piles of who-knows-what. Card tables are set up haphazardly, forming makeshift aisles. The walls of the maze are made up of even more books, magazines, and VHS tapes that probably have some vintage porn recorded on them.
While we’re certain that the local judges who picked the nominees for the 2007 BAMA awards are intelligent and discerning (and quite possibly on our mailing list), we notice that there’s a certain band in which we play that was left off the list. Not that there aren’t many talented and fun (and quite possibly on our mailing list) musicians deserving of nominations on the ballot, but we feel that any ballot is empty and incomplete without the Exhibit(s) there.
If anyone out there can decipher the French enough to give me a clue on some search terms for wherever this is, you can come with me and CL on our honeymoon. Probably to keep her company at the base, since she’s terribly acrophobic, but still, it’s France… (or is it?)
… No, seriously, Robert Patrick versus Jack Bauer versus Sayid with commentary by Perry Cox. What more could you want?