Mindy's place is filled with intelligent debate and discussion, so I'm just going to throw my blog open to a hedonistic, cyber-pool party.
Bar is open.
The Cabana boys are open minded, but sensitive, so behave yourselves.
**Dons toga**
**leaps into Jaccuzi**
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Sunday, January 29, 2006
It’s a Man’s life in the Army.
By E. Ann BArdawill (2006)
After the picture show fiasco, Gramps got banned from the MegaMall for life, which in most cases'd be a tragedy, but Gramps were pushing 82. ‘Pon my promise I’d take Gramps shopping at the GigaMall from here on, the management dropped the charges. I told Gramps it were because he’s War Vet and all, but he weren’t buying that and asked me how many times Mr. Franklin stuck up for him.
He just sat hisself in his room watching Vic Morrow and COMBAT on the DVD machine and talking about the last reunion of his Unit. There were jest three o’ them left. Most of the unit was back in France somewhars, buried up proper with a nice big monument and all. Gramps went over there to pay respects some years ago, but the beach he took was filled with girlies who don lost the tops to thar bikini-suits - which he didn’t mind all that much, but the men-folk were awearing them teeny-tiny speedometers over their most privates, and Gramps said it were hard enough trying to comprende the lingo without staring at a bunch o’ hairy netherquarters covered in damp cellphane.
Gramps joined up when he were 16. Being tall, a good liar and a crack shot the army didn’t say no. Gramps, Barney and Stinky were the last ones standing, ‘cepting that Barney were in a wheelchair and lately he thought it was around 1970 something and Nixon were still president. I told Gramps to just tell Barney a dick still ran the White house, but I got a hard cuff fer that, so I jest say a whole lot of nothing, which is usually the best thing t’do whar Gramps is concerned.
Gramps hadn’t seen Stinky since the trip to France back in the 60’s, so he was all excited-like the day I drove him up to Town. He told me about the time Stinky, his pistol clip emptier than Paris Hilton's head, captured six Germans on bravado alone. Gramps kept on sticking a faded picture of Stinky in my face while I was atrying to past a rusted out Honda driven by the world’s butt ugliest old lady in the world’s butt ugliest straw hat. Gramps crowed about the time they went to Gay Paris (this were before the word ‘gay’ came to mean a whole other kinda thang) and drank so much wine they tried to join the Foreign Legion, but then they sobered up and decided it were un-American to be doing that and then he told me 'bout the time Stinky got his scar down his face when a German tried to knife him.
The Hall were all prettied up fine, and I gots my toes run over 'bout fifty times, I reckon, by Vets in souped up wheelchairs. Barney pimped his all up with flames and such. So I went to fetch refreshments for Gramps and Barney while they waited for Stinky to show up. As I left Gramps were going on about the gay mafia’s infiltration of the film industry and Barney were promising to write Nixon about it when the World’s butt ugliest woman strode through the door. The handle of a pistol stuck out of her purse and I started to get one of my bad feelin’s in the pit ‘o my stomach. Her floppy straw hat had tiny American Flags stuck in it. Her lipstick were so red it were like she kissed the corvette I’d bought during my mid-life crisis. The five o’clock shadow was still visible under the two coats of make-up she trowelled on but were the distinctive scar that ran down one side of her face that caught my eye.
I keep agoing on to the bar, downed a holy trinity of something straight up, checked to see how much cash I brung and prayed to the Lord that Gramps dun remembered his heart pills.
I bailed Stinky out of the crowbar hotel first off. I gave her my coat since his dress was near tore right off and offered him a twenty minute headstart.
“Yew, sir, are a real gentleman. Stinky fixed what were left of her wig, plucked the ripped straw hat over it and wobbled down the hall, one of his heel’s all askew. I sat and hummed the tune ‘Lola’ for a spell, then paid up Gramps bail
On the way home Gramps sat in the truck chewing his heart pills like pez and muttering words I’d rather not repeat. I handed him a clean hanky to wipe what looked like corvette paint offen his face and said a whole lot of nothing.
By E. Ann BArdawill (2006)
After the picture show fiasco, Gramps got banned from the MegaMall for life, which in most cases'd be a tragedy, but Gramps were pushing 82. ‘Pon my promise I’d take Gramps shopping at the GigaMall from here on, the management dropped the charges. I told Gramps it were because he’s War Vet and all, but he weren’t buying that and asked me how many times Mr. Franklin stuck up for him.
He just sat hisself in his room watching Vic Morrow and COMBAT on the DVD machine and talking about the last reunion of his Unit. There were jest three o’ them left. Most of the unit was back in France somewhars, buried up proper with a nice big monument and all. Gramps went over there to pay respects some years ago, but the beach he took was filled with girlies who don lost the tops to thar bikini-suits - which he didn’t mind all that much, but the men-folk were awearing them teeny-tiny speedometers over their most privates, and Gramps said it were hard enough trying to comprende the lingo without staring at a bunch o’ hairy netherquarters covered in damp cellphane.
Gramps joined up when he were 16. Being tall, a good liar and a crack shot the army didn’t say no. Gramps, Barney and Stinky were the last ones standing, ‘cepting that Barney were in a wheelchair and lately he thought it was around 1970 something and Nixon were still president. I told Gramps to just tell Barney a dick still ran the White house, but I got a hard cuff fer that, so I jest say a whole lot of nothing, which is usually the best thing t’do whar Gramps is concerned.
Gramps hadn’t seen Stinky since the trip to France back in the 60’s, so he was all excited-like the day I drove him up to Town. He told me about the time Stinky, his pistol clip emptier than Paris Hilton's head, captured six Germans on bravado alone. Gramps kept on sticking a faded picture of Stinky in my face while I was atrying to past a rusted out Honda driven by the world’s butt ugliest old lady in the world’s butt ugliest straw hat. Gramps crowed about the time they went to Gay Paris (this were before the word ‘gay’ came to mean a whole other kinda thang) and drank so much wine they tried to join the Foreign Legion, but then they sobered up and decided it were un-American to be doing that and then he told me 'bout the time Stinky got his scar down his face when a German tried to knife him.
The Hall were all prettied up fine, and I gots my toes run over 'bout fifty times, I reckon, by Vets in souped up wheelchairs. Barney pimped his all up with flames and such. So I went to fetch refreshments for Gramps and Barney while they waited for Stinky to show up. As I left Gramps were going on about the gay mafia’s infiltration of the film industry and Barney were promising to write Nixon about it when the World’s butt ugliest woman strode through the door. The handle of a pistol stuck out of her purse and I started to get one of my bad feelin’s in the pit ‘o my stomach. Her floppy straw hat had tiny American Flags stuck in it. Her lipstick were so red it were like she kissed the corvette I’d bought during my mid-life crisis. The five o’clock shadow was still visible under the two coats of make-up she trowelled on but were the distinctive scar that ran down one side of her face that caught my eye.
I keep agoing on to the bar, downed a holy trinity of something straight up, checked to see how much cash I brung and prayed to the Lord that Gramps dun remembered his heart pills.
I bailed Stinky out of the crowbar hotel first off. I gave her my coat since his dress was near tore right off and offered him a twenty minute headstart.
“Yew, sir, are a real gentleman. Stinky fixed what were left of her wig, plucked the ripped straw hat over it and wobbled down the hall, one of his heel’s all askew. I sat and hummed the tune ‘Lola’ for a spell, then paid up Gramps bail
On the way home Gramps sat in the truck chewing his heart pills like pez and muttering words I’d rather not repeat. I handed him a clean hanky to wipe what looked like corvette paint offen his face and said a whole lot of nothing.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Gramp's Last Picture Show
by E. Ann Bardawill
(2006)
(With apologies to James Ford, Geishas, Cowboys and people with False teeth)
Every once in a great while Gramps’ll put in his teeth and go to town. The past few years he don’t git out as much as he used ter, what with his old war wound bothering him and all.
The last time he made it as far as town there was a bit of a frackus with some kids wearing them pants down round their knees and giving the wimmonfolk an eyeful of their boxershorts - cause there’s no explaining to Gramps that’s the fashion these days.
I took him to the MegaMall and told him to stay out of trouble and he decided the best way to do that was to take in a picture show. I escorted him as far as the MegaTheatre and he shooed me away, and said he didn’t need no dem babysitter.
It were a few days later I wheedled all the details about what happened.
After I left to pick up a few necessities at the Mega Dollar’R’ Two Town, Gramps looked at the posters to decide what picture he wanted, and upon seeing a couple o’ cowpokes looking forlorn and being a Zane Gray buff o’ sorts, he picked Brokeback Mountain for his viewing pleasure.
Things went sort o’ bad after that.
Now Gramps’ll pinch a penny ‘til it screams, but he bought a box of sweets as a special treat cause he don’t git to town much and the occasion warranted it. He sprung for a cola too, and made hisself comfortable and waited for the show to start. The first inkling he thought something wasn’t lining up was when he noticed it were all wimmin folk in the seats. Not a pair of stright legged jeans to be seen, ‘cepting for one lady with a buzzcut, a vest and funny shoes.
I guess I best cut straight to the chase. Well, the movie got to that part whar it gits cold and the one guy crawls into the tent with the other guy and then things start moving along at a pretty fast and furious clip after that.
Gramps horked up his candy and spilt his cola on the lady with the buzz cut. She screamed like a bat outta hell, and Gramps beat a path out of thar faster than you could spit, which he did cause he was choking on the malted milks and that candy is still stucken to the wall and vest-wearing lady as far as I know.
Poor gramps splashed water in his face in the men’s room and calmed hisself down a mite. Still flustered he went back out into the corridor and figured since he’d plucked down a fair bit of coin he was gonna sneak into another film and git his dollar’s worth, but he’d pick a show more careful this time.
He spotted a poster with a couple o’ Yanks in zoot suits with a pretty blonde dame all stretched out and he went into that theatre. I guess he figured ‘The Producers’ wouldn’t be filled will funny boys like Brokeback Mountain was, but I reckon that weren’t the case and things went from bad to much worse.
The picture had already started, but Gramps settled in with a fresh mouthful of candy and said it were fine and dandy until a big hairy, director in a sparkly gown launched into a song called “Keep It Gay” and… well you can imagine.
After Gramps pulled his head of out of the pot, flushed, rinsed his teeth, put ‘em back in and splashed more water on his face, he wondered what in tarnation the world were coming to.
He should have left well enough alone, but Gramp’s as stubborn as a drunken goat so he ventured out once more and picked another movie at random. I s’pose he figured three times lucky, tho’ it turn into a third strike, I reckon.
Gramps didn’t look at the posters this time. He chose a movie based on the titles scrolling above the doors. His eye lit on the words “PICTURE SHOW” and Gramps figured that it must be one o’ them scary movies cause there were a special note on the door that said “Special retrospective showing of the ‘Rocky Horror Picture Show’”.
The MegaMall security pulled him off the food court fountain, whar he were raving about the Problem with Society; boxer shorts; uppity whippersnappers and the rising cost of Dentucream, and released him back to me. While fishing Gramps set of bottom teeth from the fountain, I scooped a fistful of quarters up and got his movie money back. That settled him a bit but he was still twitching when I got him home and put him to bed.
Gramps never went to a picture show again and he never could read Zane Gray after that.
Probably fer the best.
by E. Ann Bardawill
(2006)
(With apologies to James Ford, Geishas, Cowboys and people with False teeth)
Every once in a great while Gramps’ll put in his teeth and go to town. The past few years he don’t git out as much as he used ter, what with his old war wound bothering him and all.
The last time he made it as far as town there was a bit of a frackus with some kids wearing them pants down round their knees and giving the wimmonfolk an eyeful of their boxershorts - cause there’s no explaining to Gramps that’s the fashion these days.
I took him to the MegaMall and told him to stay out of trouble and he decided the best way to do that was to take in a picture show. I escorted him as far as the MegaTheatre and he shooed me away, and said he didn’t need no dem babysitter.
It were a few days later I wheedled all the details about what happened.
After I left to pick up a few necessities at the Mega Dollar’R’ Two Town, Gramps looked at the posters to decide what picture he wanted, and upon seeing a couple o’ cowpokes looking forlorn and being a Zane Gray buff o’ sorts, he picked Brokeback Mountain for his viewing pleasure.
Things went sort o’ bad after that.
Now Gramps’ll pinch a penny ‘til it screams, but he bought a box of sweets as a special treat cause he don’t git to town much and the occasion warranted it. He sprung for a cola too, and made hisself comfortable and waited for the show to start. The first inkling he thought something wasn’t lining up was when he noticed it were all wimmin folk in the seats. Not a pair of stright legged jeans to be seen, ‘cepting for one lady with a buzzcut, a vest and funny shoes.
I guess I best cut straight to the chase. Well, the movie got to that part whar it gits cold and the one guy crawls into the tent with the other guy and then things start moving along at a pretty fast and furious clip after that.
Gramps horked up his candy and spilt his cola on the lady with the buzz cut. She screamed like a bat outta hell, and Gramps beat a path out of thar faster than you could spit, which he did cause he was choking on the malted milks and that candy is still stucken to the wall and vest-wearing lady as far as I know.
Poor gramps splashed water in his face in the men’s room and calmed hisself down a mite. Still flustered he went back out into the corridor and figured since he’d plucked down a fair bit of coin he was gonna sneak into another film and git his dollar’s worth, but he’d pick a show more careful this time.
He spotted a poster with a couple o’ Yanks in zoot suits with a pretty blonde dame all stretched out and he went into that theatre. I guess he figured ‘The Producers’ wouldn’t be filled will funny boys like Brokeback Mountain was, but I reckon that weren’t the case and things went from bad to much worse.
The picture had already started, but Gramps settled in with a fresh mouthful of candy and said it were fine and dandy until a big hairy, director in a sparkly gown launched into a song called “Keep It Gay” and… well you can imagine.
After Gramps pulled his head of out of the pot, flushed, rinsed his teeth, put ‘em back in and splashed more water on his face, he wondered what in tarnation the world were coming to.
He should have left well enough alone, but Gramp’s as stubborn as a drunken goat so he ventured out once more and picked another movie at random. I s’pose he figured three times lucky, tho’ it turn into a third strike, I reckon.
Gramps didn’t look at the posters this time. He chose a movie based on the titles scrolling above the doors. His eye lit on the words “PICTURE SHOW” and Gramps figured that it must be one o’ them scary movies cause there were a special note on the door that said “Special retrospective showing of the ‘Rocky Horror Picture Show’”.
The MegaMall security pulled him off the food court fountain, whar he were raving about the Problem with Society; boxer shorts; uppity whippersnappers and the rising cost of Dentucream, and released him back to me. While fishing Gramps set of bottom teeth from the fountain, I scooped a fistful of quarters up and got his movie money back. That settled him a bit but he was still twitching when I got him home and put him to bed.
Gramps never went to a picture show again and he never could read Zane Gray after that.
Probably fer the best.
Disclaimer:
This is all James Ford's, Sandra and MG's fault.
“Brokeback Geisha” (Title by James Ford)
Setting: Winter in Colorado
Ext. Mountain. Evening
A refined and beautiful young Geisha, CHERRI BUTTERFLY, is standing near a flock of sheep. Nearby is a ruggedly handsome herder, DARN SHANE.
DARN:
Miss Cherri, I – I gots to tell you, I’ma getting strong-like feeling in my heart fer you.
CHERRI
I feer the same way, Shane-San. But I have a terrible secret. I must exprain.
DARN:
I think I know your terrible secret, Miss Cheri. I reckon it’s got somethin’ t’do with that thang standin over thar.
PAN WAAAAAAAAAY BACK:
REVEAL a GIANT ROBOT standing silently on the mountain.
DARN:
I ain’t never seen one of them thangs before, but the sheep don’t mind it much. ‘Cepting when they get stepped on.
CHERRI
Oh Shane-San! Mobire Suit Goddarn isn’t my secret. Before I reft my country I was kabuki dancer. Do you know what is kabuki?
DARN:
Is that that funny dance you was doing with that thar giant octopus down at the lake yonder?
CHERRI
Er… no. Not exacry.
DARN:
Oh, is it that yer of Chinese ancestry and not actually Japanese-like?
CHERRI
Er… no. Not exacry.
DARN:
(Scratches head)
Well, I dunno what yer gitting at then, Miss Butterfly.
CHERRI
Never mind, Shane-San. It is not important.
(BEAT)
I am cord. Can we go to your tent?
DARN:
Well, shucks, Miss Butterfly. I ain’t never took a lady back to my tent before.
Sheep, yah - but never a lady.
CHERRI
Oh. Werr then.
(Covers smile with fan)
First time for everything.
This is all James Ford's, Sandra and MG's fault.
“Brokeback Geisha” (Title by James Ford)
Setting: Winter in Colorado
Ext. Mountain. Evening
A refined and beautiful young Geisha, CHERRI BUTTERFLY, is standing near a flock of sheep. Nearby is a ruggedly handsome herder, DARN SHANE.
DARN:
Miss Cherri, I – I gots to tell you, I’ma getting strong-like feeling in my heart fer you.
CHERRI
I feer the same way, Shane-San. But I have a terrible secret. I must exprain.
DARN:
I think I know your terrible secret, Miss Cheri. I reckon it’s got somethin’ t’do with that thang standin over thar.
PAN WAAAAAAAAAY BACK:
REVEAL a GIANT ROBOT standing silently on the mountain.
DARN:
I ain’t never seen one of them thangs before, but the sheep don’t mind it much. ‘Cepting when they get stepped on.
CHERRI
Oh Shane-San! Mobire Suit Goddarn isn’t my secret. Before I reft my country I was kabuki dancer. Do you know what is kabuki?
DARN:
Is that that funny dance you was doing with that thar giant octopus down at the lake yonder?
CHERRI
Er… no. Not exacry.
DARN:
Oh, is it that yer of Chinese ancestry and not actually Japanese-like?
CHERRI
Er… no. Not exacry.
DARN:
(Scratches head)
Well, I dunno what yer gitting at then, Miss Butterfly.
CHERRI
Never mind, Shane-San. It is not important.
(BEAT)
I am cord. Can we go to your tent?
DARN:
Well, shucks, Miss Butterfly. I ain’t never took a lady back to my tent before.
Sheep, yah - but never a lady.
CHERRI
Oh. Werr then.
(Covers smile with fan)
First time for everything.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Saturday, January 21, 2006
First lines of a bad novel I shall never write...
The tiara remained slightly askew despite her attempts to adjust it. She deeply inhaled the reassuring scent of her only loves and pondered how much she enjoyed the scent of well-fed Corgis in the morning.
(With thanks to the blog of Sandrablabber for the inspiration)
The tiara remained slightly askew despite her attempts to adjust it. She deeply inhaled the reassuring scent of her only loves and pondered how much she enjoyed the scent of well-fed Corgis in the morning.
(With thanks to the blog of Sandrablabber for the inspiration)
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Where do You Get Your Ideas?
In my quest to avoid doing dishes, I contemplate this age old question*
I rarely suffer from writers block, and occasionally wish I did. I have too many ideas wrestling half-clad in the muck of my fevered brain. Inspiration strikes from reading the paper. Ann Landers and her ilk are a great source of social conflict ideas. National Geographic is super for mental imagery, political impressions, and settings. Cosmopolitan can help one add authentic flavor to the deep, penetrating issues raised in chicklit. Books of ‘Myth and Legends’ and less well-known fairy tales are super for avoiding overdone monsters, characters and story lines.
I don’t know about you guys but I’m fed up with pop culture staples. Vampires. Elves/Dwarves. Spunky female detectives w/personal issues.** Sparksian romances where somebody dies thus insuring never-ending pathos, etc., etc.
One of my favorite tricks is to take three completely unrelated and random idea elements and tie them together. Stir it up. Sometimes you get a hash only the dog will eat, but sometimes you discover a great new taste combination.
*It’s right up there along with:
1. Does this toga make me look fat?
2. Have you heard? Did you see Og’s woman under Grong’s leopard fur?
And the ever popular –
3. Who farted?
** How come the guys get all the good quirks? Remember Ironside - the guy in the wheel chair? Now we have Monk, the obsessive-compussive guy.
How about a bi-sexual chick with Tourette’s Syndrome who solves crimes with the help of her neurotic lapdog/on-line poker addict, Mr. Piddles? Think English eccentric with a twist of American Conservatism. Seriously, something a little different would be nice.
Question:
What books/magazines do you currently keep in your bathroom. What do you read whenyou are… (how can I put this delicately?) otherwise engaged?
In my quest to avoid doing dishes, I contemplate this age old question*
I rarely suffer from writers block, and occasionally wish I did. I have too many ideas wrestling half-clad in the muck of my fevered brain. Inspiration strikes from reading the paper. Ann Landers and her ilk are a great source of social conflict ideas. National Geographic is super for mental imagery, political impressions, and settings. Cosmopolitan can help one add authentic flavor to the deep, penetrating issues raised in chicklit. Books of ‘Myth and Legends’ and less well-known fairy tales are super for avoiding overdone monsters, characters and story lines.
I don’t know about you guys but I’m fed up with pop culture staples. Vampires. Elves/Dwarves. Spunky female detectives w/personal issues.** Sparksian romances where somebody dies thus insuring never-ending pathos, etc., etc.
One of my favorite tricks is to take three completely unrelated and random idea elements and tie them together. Stir it up. Sometimes you get a hash only the dog will eat, but sometimes you discover a great new taste combination.
*It’s right up there along with:
1. Does this toga make me look fat?
2. Have you heard? Did you see Og’s woman under Grong’s leopard fur?
And the ever popular –
3. Who farted?
** How come the guys get all the good quirks? Remember Ironside - the guy in the wheel chair? Now we have Monk, the obsessive-compussive guy.
How about a bi-sexual chick with Tourette’s Syndrome who solves crimes with the help of her neurotic lapdog/on-line poker addict, Mr. Piddles? Think English eccentric with a twist of American Conservatism. Seriously, something a little different would be nice.
Question:
What books/magazines do you currently keep in your bathroom. What do you read whenyou are… (how can I put this delicately?) otherwise engaged?
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Sex Scenes and the Married Matron.
I am a person who spends an inordinate amount of time commenting on the tautiliciousness of men's bottoms. Yet I confess a preference in leaving certain things to the imagination when I write.
Sex being one of them.
I will describe food in great detail.
Architecture.
Weather.
Anything but The Act.
The book I am currently trying to whip into shape for a spring submission deals with celibacy, kinks, mind games, the effect of pop culture and mass media on one's libedo and romance.
But not The Act.
I find a character's mindset far more intriging that the position of her or his tongue/right hip/rubber accessories.
So... my question gentle readers, is:
How important is the detail of sexual scenarios for you in the books you write/read?
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Monday, January 09, 2006
Why I love PBS.
A few years ago I completely gave up on Satellite TV. The entertaining delights my family paid to fall from the sky revealed itself to be a wasteland of vapid specialty channels trotting out moldy chestnuts, peppered with commercials we thought we forked over a credit card number to avoid.
Alas not.
These days I rarely watch TV. The one show I refuse to miss is House. House is Canadian written, American funded and the lead role is cast by Hugh Laurie, a Brit. I figure for what I’m saving monthly on satellite I’ll spend buying the season of a series I truly think worth the money. IE: Trailer Park Boys. My only criticism of House is the blatant product placement, but I make a drinking game out of it, so no real harm done. (I don’t care if Greg House thinks iPods are the bee’s knees, I know they are crap and wouldn’t own one if it was given to me. I’d sell it to some twit on eBay and use the hundred of dollars to buy something less idiotic than an MP3 player.)
But I digress.
PBS grabs me with its commercial free, intelligent programming. No choppy, fast-paced sound bites or promotions for shows about angst-ridden, pretty, white people who live near a beach.. No teasing Mary hart types who withhold tidbit of banal celebrity gossip until the last 5 seconds. No ads for ED medication interrupt the train of thought.
A few nights ago I chanced upon Jeeves and Wooster with the delightful Stephan Fry and Hugh Laurie. My son, a devouted House fan, paused to watch Hugh Laurie. The best moment? Laurie, as Bertie Wooster, deliberate and beautifully mangling of Cab Calloway’s Minnie the Moocher. Howling at this bit of masterful comedy, my son sat down to watch the rest. He is now is reading P.D. Wodehouse. PBS buys the good stuff. Timeless classics. Because of Laurie’s new success with House, Jeeves and Wooster is dusted off, trotted out again and a new generation of appreciative fans is cultivated.
Modern TV can provoke imagination, debate and interest while accumulating an audience. The ones that do are excellent television. I loved X-Files because it left hard logical and theological questions unanswered. The X-files faltered for a lot of reasons - mostly because the writers were given no direction, no greater vision. The rules kept changing. (When Carter left to launch other TV series, Darin Morgan, poor darling, imploded and no one ‘owned’ X-Files anymore. The lynch pin of the series was Mulder’s missing sister, Samantha. Once they blew Samantha off, the entire foundation of what made Mulder an interesting character fell apart. What a waste. One wonders if the gamble was worth it. Is Chris Carter still alive? Is Mrs. Leoni… er - David Duchovny?
If only they finished what they started. /rant)
People like puzzles, especially the one that stare back at them from a mirror. It’s why House works. It’s why LOST works. But these cerebral challenges from the networks are rare.
So, bless you, PBS. I solemnly swear I shall send you some money …
one of these days.
A few years ago I completely gave up on Satellite TV. The entertaining delights my family paid to fall from the sky revealed itself to be a wasteland of vapid specialty channels trotting out moldy chestnuts, peppered with commercials we thought we forked over a credit card number to avoid.
Alas not.
These days I rarely watch TV. The one show I refuse to miss is House. House is Canadian written, American funded and the lead role is cast by Hugh Laurie, a Brit. I figure for what I’m saving monthly on satellite I’ll spend buying the season of a series I truly think worth the money. IE: Trailer Park Boys. My only criticism of House is the blatant product placement, but I make a drinking game out of it, so no real harm done. (I don’t care if Greg House thinks iPods are the bee’s knees, I know they are crap and wouldn’t own one if it was given to me. I’d sell it to some twit on eBay and use the hundred of dollars to buy something less idiotic than an MP3 player.)
But I digress.
PBS grabs me with its commercial free, intelligent programming. No choppy, fast-paced sound bites or promotions for shows about angst-ridden, pretty, white people who live near a beach.. No teasing Mary hart types who withhold tidbit of banal celebrity gossip until the last 5 seconds. No ads for ED medication interrupt the train of thought.
A few nights ago I chanced upon Jeeves and Wooster with the delightful Stephan Fry and Hugh Laurie. My son, a devouted House fan, paused to watch Hugh Laurie. The best moment? Laurie, as Bertie Wooster, deliberate and beautifully mangling of Cab Calloway’s Minnie the Moocher. Howling at this bit of masterful comedy, my son sat down to watch the rest. He is now is reading P.D. Wodehouse. PBS buys the good stuff. Timeless classics. Because of Laurie’s new success with House, Jeeves and Wooster is dusted off, trotted out again and a new generation of appreciative fans is cultivated.
Modern TV can provoke imagination, debate and interest while accumulating an audience. The ones that do are excellent television. I loved X-Files because it left hard logical and theological questions unanswered. The X-files faltered for a lot of reasons - mostly because the writers were given no direction, no greater vision. The rules kept changing. (When Carter left to launch other TV series, Darin Morgan, poor darling, imploded and no one ‘owned’ X-Files anymore. The lynch pin of the series was Mulder’s missing sister, Samantha. Once they blew Samantha off, the entire foundation of what made Mulder an interesting character fell apart. What a waste. One wonders if the gamble was worth it. Is Chris Carter still alive? Is Mrs. Leoni… er - David Duchovny?
If only they finished what they started. /rant)
People like puzzles, especially the one that stare back at them from a mirror. It’s why House works. It’s why LOST works. But these cerebral challenges from the networks are rare.
So, bless you, PBS. I solemnly swear I shall send you some money …
one of these days.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
The Curmugeonly Case of the RM’s
‘Officiousness, when it can cohabitate with that tacky slut self-righteousness, is chillingly fertile.’
Rex Murphy
Points of View, 2003
Around this time last year I turned 40. I am now officially 40-something. My kiddies, strapping young lads no longer require - or indeed desire - my constant attention, have left me with spare moments that I dutifully fill writing my magnesium gropus*.
In other spare moments I amuse myself reading the essays of one Rex Murphy, a Newfie/Rhoades scholar on whom the fates bestowed a face that could make an onion cry, but also the ability to bend and twist the English language to his divine will.
Rex’s collection of essays, Points Of View, (McClelland & Stewart Ltd. 2003) restores faith in my own instincts. Like the bluntly eloquent (and fellow Eastcoaster) Rick Mercer, Rex exposes flaws or bestows kudos appropriately, sweeping a beleagured and unappreciated English language to a much higher plane as he does so.
Observations on culture range from Canadiana to Ozzy and Oprah to Ernst Zundel. Rex shines his tart views on haute/pop/bacterial culture until he creates a blinding sheen of understanding. When your eyes adjust, you not only see that Emperors have no clothes, but often they aren’t anatomically correct either.
Rex is unwaveringly Canadian, a trait I’ve come to deeply appreciate. Rick Mercer shares this quality. Both men might easily cross the border and effortlessly grasp American Dreams of insufferable Fame and Fortune, but instead they choose to remain in the North to comment on the folly and foibles of Canadian politics, Canadian identity or our unique Canadian idiocy.
Bless them.
Rex Murphy and Rick Mercer.
Rhetorical Masters. Real Men.
* Smut, that is. The generous may describe it as ‘Commercial fiction’, but my tawdry observations on the most basic of human reproductive compulsions is really best known as ‘Chick lit’.
‘Officiousness, when it can cohabitate with that tacky slut self-righteousness, is chillingly fertile.’
Rex Murphy
Points of View, 2003
Around this time last year I turned 40. I am now officially 40-something. My kiddies, strapping young lads no longer require - or indeed desire - my constant attention, have left me with spare moments that I dutifully fill writing my magnesium gropus*.
In other spare moments I amuse myself reading the essays of one Rex Murphy, a Newfie/Rhoades scholar on whom the fates bestowed a face that could make an onion cry, but also the ability to bend and twist the English language to his divine will.
Rex’s collection of essays, Points Of View, (McClelland & Stewart Ltd. 2003) restores faith in my own instincts. Like the bluntly eloquent (and fellow Eastcoaster) Rick Mercer, Rex exposes flaws or bestows kudos appropriately, sweeping a beleagured and unappreciated English language to a much higher plane as he does so.
Observations on culture range from Canadiana to Ozzy and Oprah to Ernst Zundel. Rex shines his tart views on haute/pop/bacterial culture until he creates a blinding sheen of understanding. When your eyes adjust, you not only see that Emperors have no clothes, but often they aren’t anatomically correct either.
Rex is unwaveringly Canadian, a trait I’ve come to deeply appreciate. Rick Mercer shares this quality. Both men might easily cross the border and effortlessly grasp American Dreams of insufferable Fame and Fortune, but instead they choose to remain in the North to comment on the folly and foibles of Canadian politics, Canadian identity or our unique Canadian idiocy.
Bless them.
Rex Murphy and Rick Mercer.
Rhetorical Masters. Real Men.
* Smut, that is. The generous may describe it as ‘Commercial fiction’, but my tawdry observations on the most basic of human reproductive compulsions is really best known as ‘Chick lit’.
Friday, January 06, 2006
Looking for a light read I recently picked up a book called
The Dying of the Light
by Michael Dibdin (1993)
A great little whodunit with a twist, full of those over-the-top characters that only English authors seem to get away with.
I particularly love this line. (Page 151)
"... life is perfectly shameless. It permits itself everything - even happiness."
Well.
Amen to that.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Advance polls for the Canadian Federal election are fast approaching. I already know whom I’m voting for. The Conservatives. This makes my father, a staunch conservative, very happy.
So will someone please tell me WHY am I having dreams about Jack Layton?
See, Jack is the Leader of the New Democrat Party. And last night, in my twisted dreams, he whispered sweet socialist somethings in my ear.
Dream a Little Dream of Meanderings:
CAPT. JACK LAYTON:
**WILDLY NIBBLING MY EAR**
ME:
Oh, Jack! JACK! It will never work.
**SNIFFLES**
CAPT. JACK LAYTON:
Aaarh, me beauty. Come on board the good ship NDP.
**GRINS w/ GOLD TEETH(A LADY’S EARRING IS STUCK IN THEM)**
ME:
It’s not that I don’t like you, Jack. Of all the candidates you are the most compelling. The most… forceful! And you are the most… most…
**GUSHES**
MANLY. A true leader, Jack! With true leaderly vision and a sweet little moustache!
Oh…oh…Jack!
**SWOONS**
CAPT. JACK LAYTON:
Let me take you a world away from the corrupt regime of the Liberals, me luv! It’ll be a fine life, wild and free as we share the wealth, right the wrongs and order in take out! There’ll be real and proper hospital reform.
**NUZZLES**
You know you want it, lassie. Arrrrrh!
**RESUMES EAR NIBBLING**
ME:
Alas, Jack! My father would never approve. I’ve decided I’ve –
**SNIFFLES**
Oh Jack! I’m going with Commodore Harper.
CAPT. JACK LAYTON:
**UPSET**
Harper? HARPER! Why he looks like one o’ them pasty marionettes from Team Canada, World Plebes. Ye canna be serious!
ME:
Alas, it’s true, Jack, but I must. He- he’s… the best match right now.
**SNIFFLES**
I can’t go with you. Not - not this election.
CAPT. JACK LAYTON:
**DISAPPOINTED**
Better Harpon than that blustering blaggard Martini, I suppose.
**NIBBLES EAR**
But I’ll wait for ye, me beauty. I swear it upon me manly chest hairs.
ME:
I know, Jack. Oh! If only you were leader of the Conservatives…maybe –maybe then…
CAPT. JACK LAYTON:
It’s not a life for me, me beauty. I must stay true to me convictions.
Ye dinna expect me to get all Stronach-like, do ye?
ME:
NO! Never! But perhaps you could arrange an alliance with Commodore Harper?
CAPT. JACK LAYTON:
I can’t promise, me lass. At least not until the results of the advance polls.
**LEAPS ON ELECTION BUS**
Fare ye well, me luv!
ME:
Jack! I – I… oh JACK!
**WEEPS INTO LACE HANKY**
CAPT. JACK LAYTON:
I know, lass. Ye think I be hotter than a two dollar pistol and ye be right.
Think o’ me sometimes, will ye?
HEAVE HO!!!
**BUS ROARS OFF**
ME:
I will. Oh I WILL! Goodbye, Jack…. My darling…
**WAVES GOODBYE w/ LACE HANKY**
DISCLAIMER:
Personally, I think this is the result of two-week old spinach dip I ate for a late night snack.
So will someone please tell me WHY am I having dreams about Jack Layton?
See, Jack is the Leader of the New Democrat Party. And last night, in my twisted dreams, he whispered sweet socialist somethings in my ear.
Dream a Little Dream of Meanderings:
CAPT. JACK LAYTON:
**WILDLY NIBBLING MY EAR**
ME:
Oh, Jack! JACK! It will never work.
**SNIFFLES**
CAPT. JACK LAYTON:
Aaarh, me beauty. Come on board the good ship NDP.
**GRINS w/ GOLD TEETH(A LADY’S EARRING IS STUCK IN THEM)**
ME:
It’s not that I don’t like you, Jack. Of all the candidates you are the most compelling. The most… forceful! And you are the most… most…
**GUSHES**
MANLY. A true leader, Jack! With true leaderly vision and a sweet little moustache!
Oh…oh…Jack!
**SWOONS**
CAPT. JACK LAYTON:
Let me take you a world away from the corrupt regime of the Liberals, me luv! It’ll be a fine life, wild and free as we share the wealth, right the wrongs and order in take out! There’ll be real and proper hospital reform.
**NUZZLES**
You know you want it, lassie. Arrrrrh!
**RESUMES EAR NIBBLING**
ME:
Alas, Jack! My father would never approve. I’ve decided I’ve –
**SNIFFLES**
Oh Jack! I’m going with Commodore Harper.
CAPT. JACK LAYTON:
**UPSET**
Harper? HARPER! Why he looks like one o’ them pasty marionettes from Team Canada, World Plebes. Ye canna be serious!
ME:
Alas, it’s true, Jack, but I must. He- he’s… the best match right now.
**SNIFFLES**
I can’t go with you. Not - not this election.
CAPT. JACK LAYTON:
**DISAPPOINTED**
Better Harpon than that blustering blaggard Martini, I suppose.
**NIBBLES EAR**
But I’ll wait for ye, me beauty. I swear it upon me manly chest hairs.
ME:
I know, Jack. Oh! If only you were leader of the Conservatives…maybe –maybe then…
CAPT. JACK LAYTON:
It’s not a life for me, me beauty. I must stay true to me convictions.
Ye dinna expect me to get all Stronach-like, do ye?
ME:
NO! Never! But perhaps you could arrange an alliance with Commodore Harper?
CAPT. JACK LAYTON:
I can’t promise, me lass. At least not until the results of the advance polls.
**LEAPS ON ELECTION BUS**
Fare ye well, me luv!
ME:
Jack! I – I… oh JACK!
**WEEPS INTO LACE HANKY**
CAPT. JACK LAYTON:
I know, lass. Ye think I be hotter than a two dollar pistol and ye be right.
Think o’ me sometimes, will ye?
HEAVE HO!!!
**BUS ROARS OFF**
ME:
I will. Oh I WILL! Goodbye, Jack…. My darling…
**WAVES GOODBYE w/ LACE HANKY**
DISCLAIMER:
Personally, I think this is the result of two-week old spinach dip I ate for a late night snack.
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