Finally got to see The Christmas Invasion last night. Thoughts?
I liked it. David Tennant as the new Doctor seems to really enjoying the role. My adoration of Billie Piper is well known, and she did not disappoint here. The story was simple enough to let us see the new Doctor in action, it made reference to Torchwood (the new Who spin off series due later this year), it was brave enough to change somewhat established continuity ( with Harriet Jones becoming Prime Minister, the Doctor spoke of it heralding England's new 'Golden Age', but when Jones orders the murder of the defeated Sycorax, the Doctor effectively skuttles that history by bringing down Jones' government with six simple words.) The bit where the Doctor manages to grow a new hand after it's been lopped off by a sword wielding alien? Hmm. We'll let that one pass.
Off real work for a week, and hope to perform miracles of transformation around here. Things have become sluggish in my life, and it's time to shake things up just to see where the pieces fall. First up is transforming a room in my house into The Vault, where I can consolidate all my geek crap. Throw junk out, perform feng shui of the soul.
Action Time GO!!
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Friday, December 23, 2005
Martha
You know exhaustion? I passed it miles ago. I think I waved.
Doing Christmas shopping, despising the experience. Yes, yes, yes: I love all the people I shell out money for. Deeply. Yet I hate having to actually be in the world doing it. Fer example-like: I'm in the LCBO today, purchasing alcoholic refreshments for Karen and Katie, two alliterative women friends of my acquaintance. Of course--because this is a Universal Law--everyone has to pay by Interac.
No one uses folding money anymore. Too high tech. Too cool. Too with it. Yet no one has developed the patience that using a computer network to facilitate financial transactions demands. So people get pissed at the person in front of them who takes two seconds to punch in their authorization number instead of their Olympic two thirds of a second. So I watch this woman get up to the counter, all peroxide blonde and trying to forget her husband is getting hand jobs from college students at the local massage parlour every Tuesday. One of the other staff members interrupts the cashier in front of her, asking for some doodad or other. Said cashier stops to look for doodad. Woman then sags her shoulders, and looks like she's about to scream You Fucking Bitch You Look For Doodads On YOUR OWN TIME!!! Her body language screamed...well, something screamy. And I thought: I just want to go home.
Yet amidst it all, I did run into a woman I used to have a crush on waaaay back in high school--back when we were still amazed by the new electrical illumination Mr. Edison had concocted and maybe one day there would be a cure for the malady of typhoid. She was in a comic book store, buying Absolut Watchmen for her boyfriend. I had just bought a Corpse Bride doll for my niece, partly because it will drive my conformist sister mad.
"You must really love him," I said. She turned, and smiled, and I suddenly wanted to ask her if she have the next slow dance with me.
"He buys everything, so I asked what would be the thing he would never buy," she said, explaining her purchase.
"Wow," I said.
"Is this bad?" she asked. I noticed the grey strands in her hair, the line around her eyes. I felt that sadness that we old geezers feel when we notice our friends have had the extreme bad taste to age.
"No, " I said. "It's great. It's wonderful. It's a great book. Pricey, though."
She made a face at that. We talked for a half a minute more, she said goodbye, and headed out into the darkness of downtown London, gone for perhaps another 25 years.
Many years ago, in what seems like another universe, the two of us spent a very enjoyable night drinking far too much, talking, laughing, and being young together. We awoke the next morning, curled together on a couch. That was really the high point of our time together. We drifted apart, obviously.
But I think it's funny--in that karmic sort of way that doesn't so much generate laughter as a quiet smile--that her boyfriend loves comics. He has good taste in two things, at least.
Doing Christmas shopping, despising the experience. Yes, yes, yes: I love all the people I shell out money for. Deeply. Yet I hate having to actually be in the world doing it. Fer example-like: I'm in the LCBO today, purchasing alcoholic refreshments for Karen and Katie, two alliterative women friends of my acquaintance. Of course--because this is a Universal Law--everyone has to pay by Interac.
No one uses folding money anymore. Too high tech. Too cool. Too with it. Yet no one has developed the patience that using a computer network to facilitate financial transactions demands. So people get pissed at the person in front of them who takes two seconds to punch in their authorization number instead of their Olympic two thirds of a second. So I watch this woman get up to the counter, all peroxide blonde and trying to forget her husband is getting hand jobs from college students at the local massage parlour every Tuesday. One of the other staff members interrupts the cashier in front of her, asking for some doodad or other. Said cashier stops to look for doodad. Woman then sags her shoulders, and looks like she's about to scream You Fucking Bitch You Look For Doodads On YOUR OWN TIME!!! Her body language screamed...well, something screamy. And I thought: I just want to go home.
Yet amidst it all, I did run into a woman I used to have a crush on waaaay back in high school--back when we were still amazed by the new electrical illumination Mr. Edison had concocted and maybe one day there would be a cure for the malady of typhoid. She was in a comic book store, buying Absolut Watchmen for her boyfriend. I had just bought a Corpse Bride doll for my niece, partly because it will drive my conformist sister mad.
"You must really love him," I said. She turned, and smiled, and I suddenly wanted to ask her if she have the next slow dance with me.
"He buys everything, so I asked what would be the thing he would never buy," she said, explaining her purchase.
"Wow," I said.
"Is this bad?" she asked. I noticed the grey strands in her hair, the line around her eyes. I felt that sadness that we old geezers feel when we notice our friends have had the extreme bad taste to age.
"No, " I said. "It's great. It's wonderful. It's a great book. Pricey, though."
She made a face at that. We talked for a half a minute more, she said goodbye, and headed out into the darkness of downtown London, gone for perhaps another 25 years.
Many years ago, in what seems like another universe, the two of us spent a very enjoyable night drinking far too much, talking, laughing, and being young together. We awoke the next morning, curled together on a couch. That was really the high point of our time together. We drifted apart, obviously.
But I think it's funny--in that karmic sort of way that doesn't so much generate laughter as a quiet smile--that her boyfriend loves comics. He has good taste in two things, at least.
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