Sunday, March 26, 2006

Into You Like a Train

Grey's Anatomy is a rare show, because I don't mind reruns. Normally I fret and frown over the idea of a repeated episode in the middle of a season, but GA is just as good reheated.

Tonight's repeat, "Into You Like a Train," gets bonus points for making me cry again. In this episode, Monica Keena (Freddy vs. Jason) and Bruce A. Young (The Sentinel) are impaled by a metal pole. In order to save one life, the other must be sacrificed.

I bawled the first time McDreamy had to tell MK she was going to die. I bawled again tonight.

Monday, March 20, 2006

EXCERPT: "The Watchman Project"

If nothing else, this past weekend gave me more snippets for the eventual "How to Go Shopping and Not Annoy the Salespeople" nonfiction bestseller. Why does cold, windy, sunny weather bring out all the crazies? The cheap crazies, no less. Do people leave their common sense in the car when they go shopping?

In the spirit of letting it go (or going postal, which is more fun, but usually frowned upon), I won't vent here. That's what a glass of White Zinfandel and my best friend are for. Instead, I thought I'd post an excerpt from one of my finished novels, "The Watchman Project." It hovers on this odd plateau between science fiction and mainstream suspense. I described it to a friend once as The A-Team meets The X-Files. The comparison is apropos.


Chapter Two: Reconnections

He picked his way across the lawn to the cracked stone pathway that snaked up to the porch. The first step creaked under his weight, as loud as a shotgun blast in the empty quiet of the evening. A car door slammed down the block. Dean's heart palpitated, and a new sheen of sweat broke out over his brow. Now that he was there, he wanted to be anywhere else. The second step creaked, but not as loudly. The third made no sound. Dean's feet shuffled softly across the wood porch, taking him to the front door of their own accord. Dean's hand reached up and pressed the doorbell to the right of the screen door.

Nothing. Not a sound from inside. He wondered if the doorbell was broken, thanked his lucky stars, but rang again. Instinct told him to run, but common sense made him stay. This time he rapped loudly on the door jam. He knocked continuously for several minutes until fear of disturbing a neighbor made him stop. He gazed around, but no one seemed to be paying attention to the dilapidated home on this end of the block. Or of the disheveled, curly-haired man trying to get inside.

He stood back and stared at the front door. It was painted fire engine red, peeled around the edges. The hinges had rusted over, and he bet they made a mighty squeak when they opened. There was no peephole that he could see, only an old nail that may have once held a wreath. The door itself looked weak enough, like a well placed action-movie kick could displace it, but he had no doubts there were double locks of all sorts on the other side. Either that or a state-of-the-art security system was ready to scream to life the minute he tried to break in.

Either way, breaking in would not help his case.

Dean backed off the porch and stepped down the creaky steps. He followed the stone path around to the side of the house. A white plank fence blocked off any view of the backyard from the front and the stone path went straight under it. He felt along the smooth wood for some sort of gate, a latch or lever. His fingers finally caught just below a knot. He felt a slender thread of metal and pushed upward. Something clicked and the wall of slats moved back a few inches. Dean pushed and his hidden gate opened further. He slipped through, leaving it open just in case he had to make a speedy exit.

If the wild front lawn surprised him, the backyard took his breath away. Three large willow trees reached toward the sky, their long bowing limbs creating a canopy of green that stretched out across the majority of the lawn. The grass was manicured and green, even in the dim light of the setting sun. Flower beds lined the metal siding around the base of the house, recently mulched by the odor of it. Late marigolds, last spring's tulips and johnny-jump-ups were planted there, along with chicks-n-hens and various herbs that Dean did not recognize. He caught a faint hint of peppermint over the smoldering odor of the mulch.

A small vegetable garden grew thick and green in the far left corner of the yard. He recognized tomato vines, two rows of corn, and leafy stalks that may have been broccoli. A black, wrought-iron bench and table stood beneath the center willow tree. The entire backyard was surrounded by the same white plank fence, taller than Dean, and with no other apparent gate. The backyard felt like a small haven, a retreat that wasn't to be shared with anyone else.

Dean thought of his mother's flower beds, and how she could never keep them properly weeded. The marigolds grew too wild, the bear grass sneaked in and choked everything else. She didn't bother with mulch, because the stray cats just dug it up. She'd stopped planting the garden when he was ten. Too much of a hassle, she'd proclaimed, tossing her garden gloves into the kitchen wastebasket and pouring a glass of instant lemonade. Little Dean had nodded along, taken his glass of lemonade and wandered into the living room to play with his Tinker Toys.

The care Dr. Younger must have taken with this yard astounded him.

Dean walked around, looking up toward the second-story windows, hoping to spot some light. Any indication that someone was awake or alive inside. He reached the back porch, just a stoop, really, with a small rail that went up a few steps. For a moment, he debated the merits of knocking here. It was probably worth a shot. One hand reached for the rail, newly painted, unlike the front porch. Just as his fingers closed over the smooth surface something cold and small pressed against the back of his neck.

Dean froze.

"You have illegally entered upon my private property," a deep, gruff voice said. The voice connected to whatever was pressing into his neck, which Dean was fairly certain was a shotgun of some caliber. "You have ten seconds to convince me I shouldn't shoot you as a trespasser."

Dean took in a shaky breath, trying to find his voice before his gray matter was splattered all over the back stoop. He had no doubts that the man behind him would keep that threat. "I, uh, I'm looking for Benjamin Younger," he said.

The barrel pressed harder. Dean winced and closed his eyes.

"Did they send you to kill me?"

"What?" Dean asked. His eyes flying open. He dared to turn his head, felt the gun barrel disappear and found himself staring down the end of it. He turned around fully, following the shotgun's length to the face of the man holding it.

He stood several inches taller than Dean, white hair shorn close in a near-buzz. Deep wrinkles set his eyes back so far he couldn't easily make out the color. But those eyes watched him with an intensity that seemed to look right through him. The man had the saggy jowls of someone who'd gained and lost weight several times over the course of his life, leaving his skin a bit too large for his now lean frame. But it was the uncanny resemblance to Anthony that struck Dean the hardest—a snapshot of the same man thirty years younger.

"Are you Benjamin Younger?" Dean asked. It couldn't be anyone else.

"Depends on who's looking for him," Younger replied. The shotgun lowered to his waist, but remained pointed at Dean's gut.

"My name is Dr. Dean Frey," he said. "I used to work for the Wilderness Institute, in their Cybernetic Development Department."

Younger's left eye twitched, but Dean was certain he had the man's full attention now. He'd practiced this speech over and over in his head as he'd walked across Wheeling, trying to say things just the right way to convince Younger he needed help. Now everything had flown from his mind, and those impassioned pleas were forgotten, replaced by a mind-numbing fear. This wasn't going to work.

"I don't work for Wilderness," Younger said. Angry now, his voice had the consistency of gravel scraping over sheet metal. A smoker's voice, minus the wet cough.

"I know," Dean said, "but you did once. You headed up Project UR-348 when it began in 1973. You were the cutting edge leader in robotic technology at the time and Wilderness gave you complete autonomy with the project."

The shotgun came up a few inches. "How do you know all that?"

"I read your file when I took over the Project in 2000," Dean continued, eyes darting to the shotgun. "I built Anthony. Or finished him, if you prefer, since his frame was mostly built when I came on board."

A dazed, slightly dreamy glaze came over Younger's face, like a child who was finally handed proof that Santa Claus existed. The joy was quickly replaced by sadness so profound and complete that Dean felt choked by it. He looked away; his eyes fixed on one of the swaying willow trees.

"Anthony works?"

The desperate question brought Dean's attention back to the aging doctor. He met the man's wet-eyed gaze and nodded.

Younger swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "Tell me."

Saturday, March 18, 2006

Someone at "Bones" loves Joss

Besides Adam Baldwin (Angel, Firefly) popping up in tonight's ep, there was also the Firefly reference in the Christmas Lung Fungus episode (Hodges to Zack, Re: Zack's robot). And after reading the Watercooler comments, I learned the following:

The place where Brennan was supposed to meet her Internet date (who was totally hot, by the way) was Nolita, which was the restaurant on the sadly short-lived sitcom Kitchen Confidential.

How cool is that? A show-out to Buffy's Nick Brendan, who starred on KC.

Or maybe I'm reading too far into this....

Friday, March 17, 2006

Shamrocks and Bones

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

I don't have any specific plans for this evening. We have rented Walk the Line and Rent, and dinner is baking away. There is wine in the fridge.

I got off a little early today, because we were supposed to have people over for a small party. They all bailed . So I sat down to watch the episode of Bones that aired two nights ago.

I don't know why, but the idea that Bones knows about internet chat rooms and dating sites just tickles me. I never thought I'd see her instant messaging a perfect stranger, and then setting up a dinner date. Her reasoning for the anthropological aspects of the 'Net are pretty cool, but I think she is justifying herself. Booth is naturally jealous the minute she tells him.

So the Squint Squad gets two bodies this week. The first is a former mob victim, wearing cement shoes. Or at least his severed feet were. The second is a female torn to shreds and eaten by dogs. Booth brings in another FBI agent to consult on the mob victim, played by Adam Baldwin! I was surprised to see him, since I didn't spot his familiar mug in the previews last week. Although the fact that he showed up, muttered a few lines, and took some pictures (before disappearing for the next 20 minutes) just screamed, "HE DID IT!"

Bones goes to meet her dinner date and ends up dodging bullets. Needless to say, this raises Booth's hackles, and he adheres himself to her hip. He also interrogates her potential date, David, in a scene that screams, "He likes you, Tempe, are you blind?" Meanwhile, Bones was smitten.

The second victim follows the pattern of a guy that Booth rousted a few years ago, so he and Bones to harass him a little. Turns out the guy has a thing for keys. Interesting.

Booth follows Bones home and insists on staying at her place. No TV, so Booth checks out her music collection. Turns out Bones enjoys listening to Foreigner, and Booth plays a mean air guitar. I laughed out loud watching Booth and Bones dance around in her living room to "Hot Blooded." The date calls, which effectively kills the mood. Booth goes into the kitchen for a soda.
I got my "Gasp Out Loud" moment for the week (since I didn't get it for 24 on Monday) when the refrigerator exploded. Poor Booth! I mean, ouch. Suitably adorable hospital scene afterward. Booth loves his pudding. And now Adam Baldwin gets to play babysitter to Bones.

Back at the lab, the Squint Squad is working hard to determine what made scrape marks in the second victim's eye socket, and match bullets to the first victim. Zack figures out which key from the Bad Guy From the Past's key collection dug out the eyeball. Bones and Jayne, er, Adam Baldwin's Agent head over to BGFtheP's house and find too much convenient evidence that the guy killed victim two.

I hate it when I can call the bad guy the minute he steps on screen. AB tries to kill Bones. She kicks his ass pretty well with her hands cuffed behind her back, but he pulls a foul and clocks her with his gun. Booth busts out of the hospital, with a little help from Hodges, and the FBI mounts a rescue (and I think it's hilarious that Hodges drives a Mini Cooper with the Euro-side steering wheel). Nice move by Booth, shooting AB in the arm, rather than actually killing him. Although I would have liked to see another Angel/Hamilton-style smack down. Oh well, the Bones/Booth hug there made it all worth it.

So AB's been working for the mob this entire time. He staged the second murder to try and throw the FBI off the track, so he could take out Bones. Nice try, but you lose.

And way to go Bones, rescheduling her dinner date to watch an old movie with Booth. Those two so deserve each other. And I mean that in a good way.


Angela: You actually have a knight in shining standard issue FBI body armor.

Booth: And Hodges is playing with dog poop. Everybody's got something to do.

Bones: Yes, Booth, I was there. They were very thorough, and I was very annoying. I'm sorry. It should be me lying in that bed.
Booth: I'm fine. I don't even know why I have to stay here.
Bones: You got blown up.
Booth: I've been worse.

I love that almost every week, this show gives me a new group to check out. They used Depeche Mode's "A Pain That I'm Used To" over the rescue sequence. Time to check out the entire album.

Another solid ep. And no major character fatalities, so right now I like it better than 24.

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

A Hero's Death

Well, this little tidbit from the "Ask Ausiello" column over at has officially killed any iota of hope I had that Tony Almeida might still be alive.

Question: OK, so we know the Hobbit made the ultimate sacrifice on Monday's 24, but did Tony die as well? Couldn't quite tell from the closing scene. — Jay

Ausiello: Yeah, Tony's toast. Carlos Bernard confirms it himself in the new issue of TV Guide, saying, “Creatively, the writers have done all they could do with Tony.”

I wasn't as shocked by Tony's demise as I could have been. I had to tape and watch the episode after it aired (I hate work!), and after my beloved roomie already saw it. Suffice it to say, I knew she wasn't offering me a box of tissues because Samwise bought it. It could only be Tony or Bill Buchanan (she's a huge James Morrison fan).

Last week's previews touted another death. My logic scale said one of two people: Audrey or McGill. I was pegging Audrey because the actress has apparently shot a potential fall pilot (and boy did that sound ominous). But McGill won the Most Deserved to Fall On His Sword Award for the night. I felt more sorry for Red Shirt #2,348. "So we're all gonna die because you were embarrassed?" Sucks to be a glorified extra on this show.

I had hoped it was all over. After all, we last Edgar last week. Just just lost, McGill (plus 40% of CTU's staff). There couldn't be anything else....

This is why I both love and hate "24."

During the episode's nailbiting final scene, I saw one of two things happening: One, Tony doesn't kill Henderson, but rather jabs the needle in his own arm and takes the easy way out. Two, Tony decides to jab Henderson, but Jack rushes into the room at the last minute and plugs Tony in the chest. Neither very nice thoughts.

I was, however, shocked by what was behind door number three.

Henderson can not only withstand an inhuman amount of pain, but he can also fake being comatose (at least well enough to fool two trained CTU agents). It bent the rules of believability, but that's what this show is famous for. So Robocop is loose (we can only hope he's on his way to kill Kim and her creepy shrink-boyfriend), and Jack rushes into medical in time to hold a dying Tony in his arms.

I'd like to point out that for once, Kim was right when she said, "I don't want to be around you. Every time I am, something horrible happens. People die." As much as I'd like to say that it's her, it really is Jack. And the work he does. And the fact that he's the star.

In the end, my beloved Tony was not a murderer. He couldn't kill Henderson. He was a hero, and it was time to rest.

Jack: Hang on, hang on.
Tony: She's gone, Jack.

I cried like a baby. What longtime fan didn't?

That puts the "special guest star" body count at ten (adding Edgar, McGill and Tony to the ever-expanding Day Five list).

And on a quick Battlestar Galactica sidenote, has an interview with Ron Moore, complete with spoilers for season three.

Who Does Your Taxes?

The absolute gall of some companies never ceases to amaze me. This is why I use TurboTax.

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Monday, March 13, 2006

The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of

Dreams are just fascinating little bits of psychology, aren't they? Not the "I want to be a rock star when I grow up" type of dream. Rather those little moving images in our minds that appear during REM cycles. Is it really possible that all of that information occurs in little thirty second bursts?

There are four distinct elements to my two parts of one dream.

Part One. I was in the living room of my mother's house, with her, watching an episode of Grey's Anatomy (this one is easy enough to figure out, since it was just on last night). She was trying to talk to me, and I was ignoring her, trying to watch TV. One ep segued directly into a second ep.

Element 1.1. In this episode on the TV in my dream, McDreamy was outside the hospital, at night. Possibly just there to think, get some air. Two guys came up behind him, asked for smokes. Smash cut to paramedics wheeling a gurney into the ER, with beat-up McDreamy on it (I'm thinking this is a result of my fannish need for hurt/comfort in my shows).

So mom interrupts me, and I don't get to see the rest of this episode. She sits on the couch next to me, all serious.

Element 1.2. She says "Your Uncle B. has cancer around his heart." She gets all weepy, and I hug her. I let her cry, but am rather ambivalent about the diagnosis (there is a lot of backstory with this particular Uncle). I was trying to be sympathetic, since he is her brother, but kept thinking that it was because he is so intolerant to anyone that isn't the perfect WASP.

Dream changed, thank goodness. I forget what segued one dream into another, that little episode is forever lost to my subconscious.

Part Two. I found myself at the beach. It's a beach that I have dreamed about before, probably representative of Lewes Beach and the State Park. One side of a sandy peninsula is very calm water, the other side is rougher, with large waves.

Element 2.1. On the calm, sandy side, people were running across the water. Or rather, across floating lily pads of some fashion, just beneath the surface. These pads created paths, that only the fastest and lightest runners could use to cross the water.

I walked across the dunes to the other side of the beach.

Element 2.2. A familiar scene here, with the beach dropping down sharply toward the water. A forty-five degree drop, toward treacherous ocean waves. And people were trying to swim! A man started shouting for them to get away from the water, that a big wave would come and swallow everyone. Sure enough, we all saw the wave coming. I slipped down the bank, and couldn't seem to climb back up. The sand kept slipping.

Thank God my alarm went off.

It's kind of odd. Element 2.2, the killer wave thing, is one of about three different recurring dreams that I have had in the last twenty years. I'm sure it has something to do with being knocked down by a giant wave when I was a child, and nearly drowning.

And all of this self-analysis coming from a girl who got a C- in the only Psychology class she ever took.

Sunday, March 12, 2006

A Nice Place to Visit

Forty minutes, and counting, until the first new The West Wing episode in six weeks. Now that NBC isn't boring America to death with their Olympics coverage, we can get back to more important things. Like Josh and Donna finally kissing!

On another note...

Boxed wine is the instrument of the devil. Those pretty photographs on the sides, depicting a well-poured glass of whatever flavor you have just purchased....insidious marketing tools! You can't see inside of that box to measure how much you have consumed. It just sits in the fridge, so innocent with its little black spout.

How much did I have to drink last night? Your guess is as good as mine. Enough to sing along very loudly to the musical episode of Buffy, the Vampire Slayer ("Once More With Feeling"). Enough to blather on and on about random idiocy until 3am. Enough to fall into bed, then promptly get back up and wander out into the living room, where I proceeded to fall asleep on the papasan chair. I woke up at 6:30am with a kitty in my lap and the rising sun in my eyes. Kitty went onto the floor, and I stumbled back to bed. I woke up around 10am, feeling bloated, dehydrated, and a little headachy.

But in my drunken semi-stupor I came to a decision about something (sorry, not going to elaborate here). It took a couple of glasses of wine to get it off my chest, but hey, nobody's perfect.

Roomie and I took a drive to Frederick, MD today so she could deposit a check. We walked around Market Street for an hour, visiting shops and window shopping. Frederick's downtown is apparently one of those towns of yesteryear where stores are actually closed on Sunday. I was doing some research for my Work-in-Progress. Two characters will eventually do some Christmas shopping in downtown Frederick, and I needed some information. Granted, the WIP is set twenty-five years in the future, but some buildings have been there for a hundred years. They'll still be around in another quarter of a century.

For any of my AbsoluteWrite consorts reading this, it dawned on my when I started writing this entry that I was *this close* to the home of one of the largest Publishing ScAms in the country. Yes, I admit to living within 25 miles of Frederick, MD. It really is a beautiful town, certain businesses notwithstanding.

Saturday, March 11, 2006

What the Frak Was That?

Okay, so this is attempt number two to write this entry. I hate Microsoft Works. Four paragraphs later, I get a frigging error message. Dummy me didn't save the file yet, so here I am, writing it all again. With this little addition, of course. So yes, I say it for all to see: MSWorks sucks!

Better now.

My brain is on Battlestar Galactica overload at the moment, after watching three and a half hours of it yesterday. I even dreamed about the show. Sadly, no naked Jamie Bamber in the dream, but that's what daydreaming is for, right? I just have to say THANK YOU to the producers for the episode "Downloaded," without which I may never have understood the process by which Cylons transfer their consciousnesses to new bodies. And how cool was it that Caprica-Six had Baltar in her head? Her playing Whack-A-Mole with Xena's head and a chunk of concrete was just awesome!

Anyhow, giggle fits aside, Roslin is a much better debater than Baltar. But Zarek was right, in that people vote their hopes, not their fears. I was genuinely shocked that Roslin agreed to fixing the election. She had a "greater good" in mind, but it turned around to bite her in the ass. Damn you, Gaeta.

I'm glad that Kara and Anders are back together. They are adorable. But Kara needs the Galactica version of AA, and quickly! I don't care if she was drunk, the way she acted in front of Lee was just….ugh. If she was trying to make him jealous, it worked. Then again, I think Lee is an idiot for sleeping with Dualla, but that's just because I can't stand the actress. I'm not exactly a Lee/Kara 'shipper, but I don't like seeing them sniping at each other like this.

Dean Stockwell was a great choice for guest star. A Cylon priest. Interesting choice, no? And he brings a message of peace (I smell something). The Cylons have left Caprica because invading and conquering was the wrong move (yeah, smells like bullsh!t). But our intrepid heroes buy it, then toss both copies of Dean Stockwell out an airlock.

Poor Chief Tyrol probably thinks he is really insane now. First he thinks he's a Cylon. Then he's counseled by a Cylon. Yeah, issues. At least Cally forgave him for beating the crap out of her…

So Gaius Baltar becomes President of the Colonies. Gina blows up Cloud Nine with the nuke he gave her. His first executive order is to begin colonization. Why worry about global defenses when you've got Shantytowns to build?

Excuse me while I pick my jaw up off the floor….. One Year Later?????

From that moment on, until the very last scene, I kept wishing, hoping and praying that someone (anyone!) would wake up and tell me that it was all a dream. It had to be a dream.

Baltar rules like Leonardo DiCaprio in Man in the Iron Mask, with women in his bed and air in his head. Poor Gaeta is his staffer, and he looks like he's in great pain doing it. Kara and Anders got married? And now he's sick, which prompts Kara to ask Lee (still commanding Pegasus, with Dualla by his side) for medicine. Something happened between the two, because his reaction is chillier than a North Dakota winter.

Tighe and his wife have just been kicked off Galactica, so Adama can command the lighthouse alone. Tyrol and pregnant-Cally are together, leading a worker's strike. Roslin is still teaching, alongside the lady who adopted the Cylon baby (for one terrifying moment, when we saw that Asian six-year old in the classroom, I had visions of the Star Child from "V").

Everyone is miserable.

So it came as no real shock that the Cylons suddenly came back. The Fleet jumped away, leaving almost 40,000 people defenseless on the surface. Caprica-Six and Boomer are leading the Cylons now, and demand immediate surrender. Baltar wimps out and gives in. It was a brilliant plan, really. Let the humans settle down, grow complacent, then pounce. Cylon drones pouring into town was pretty scary. But always, a glimmer of hope at the end.

Tyrol: What do you do now, Captain?
Starbuck: Same thing we always do. Fight then 'til we can't.


Wait….Returning in October? Now that's just cruel….

Friday, March 10, 2006

First SF/F Live Chat

On a much happier note, I also participated in my first ever Absolute Write live chat, for the Science Fiction/Fantasy board. I brought the cyber-cheesecake, Serenity brought the cyber-beer, Sage brought the cyber-punch, and great fun was had by all.

We had some serious discussions of our Works-in-Progress, and I loved some of the ideas that I heard. I hung around much longer than I should have (four hours), keeping me up for about 21 hours yesterday.

Typo signature #1: Hanging WIP's with labout dragon-limes and reel fig fish.

Words Fail Me

Sometimes our curiosity gets the better of us, and we do stupid things. Truly stupid things that we can never undo (and no, this is not a lead-in to a Dubya joke).

Remember my first post? The trouble Mayhem and I had with two players on a Firefly-based PBEM? That we were summarily kicked off that group without word or warning? Well, I am going to waste a little more webspace on the topic. Why? Because I read something on the site and got so angry that my hands were shaking.

Last night, Mayhem's curiosity got the better of her, and she went into the game site to see what had been happening. She IM-ed me about one of Deb's posts, so I (being an eternal idiot) ran right over to see what had Mayhem up in arms.

Another player had started an off-topic thread a few weeks back called "Crickets," commenting that the in-game threads. That they were slow right now, and just making sure people were still out there. The first time I saw it, I laughed. I couldn't help but think, "serves you guys right." Hey, I can be vindictive with the best of them.

And then I found the gem that made my blood pressure exploded, posted March 4 by Deb (aka, the passive-aggressive Group Owner):

but we'll muddle through and not worry about finishing our conversatin in the lounge - it's not a big... but remember, we no longer have people who write posts about NOTHING but themselves, so make sure you read everything, so it doesn't get all confusing

Now, I admit to making jokes about players in private. Some people have trouble spelling, others just aren't great at writing reflective posts. But I never post anything negative about my players (current or former) on a pubic forum. It is rude. It is childish. It is downright mean. The right words just do not exist to express how wrong it is.

But do you know what toasts my cookies even more? Six days later, and not a single site member has commented on it. No one has stepped up and said, "They're gone, let it go." Or, "Are jibes like that really necessary?" Nope. Just more crickets.

I hate crickets. They get on your porch, under your window, in your house. They chirp and chirp and chirp, and there's really nothing you can do to silence the noise.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

A Clock is Ticking

Bones, how I've missed you. Booth and Brennan have officially taken the place of Mulder and Scully as my favorite crime-fighting sexual tension-ladden duo. Besides, how cool is it to see David Boreanaz in the sunlight every single week? Angel had him skulking in the shadows so often I forgot his skin had pigmentation.

Tonight's ep was stellar, as always. This show always makes the best use of music, and I have found another new group to listen to tomorrow. Snow Patrol's "Somewhere A Clock is Ticking" is a lovely little tune, and I look forward to hearing the rest of the album.

Our guest star (who actually didn't do it!) was Michael E. Rodgers. If you took Simon Baker and Ron Eldard, and you mashed them both together, you'd probably get Michael. Cute. Very cute.

Banter watch.

Bones: You told him that so you wouldn't have to talk to him.
Booth: Well, it's nicer than shooting him.

Bones: I feel like kicking him.
Booth: That's normal after a pursuit. We try not to do that.

Next week this show is finally moving to an 8pm time slot, so it won't interfere with Lost. Not that I'm as excited about Lost as I used to be, but that's a whole other rant.

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

"It Just Got A Little Easier Out Here For a Pimp"

The Academy Awards. Or better yet, the Oscar-Meets-Sominex Awards. Was it me, or did the entire auditorium look like it was sleeping through the ceremony? Did they forget to take their happy juice? Host Jon Stewart was funny, you have to admit that. I love his brand of humor, and it felt very fresh after a handful of terrible hosts these last ten years (Billy Crystal not included).

Some of Jon's best lines:

"I do have some sad news to report. Bjork couldn't be with us. She was trying on her Oscar dress and Dick Cheney shot her."

"Martin Scorcese, zero Oscars; Three 6 Mafia, one."

Jon was amused by the rambunctious rappers, noting that he would still hear them celebrating off-stage. They were the happiest people in the Kodak Theater that night.

Lily Tomlin and Meryl Streep's introduction to Robert Altman's Honorary Oscar was priceless. I am not an Altman fan (except for MASH), but they did a good job with the tribute. And they looked like they were having fun! Take a cue, people! Diana Ossana, on stage to collect her award for co-adapting the screenplay for Brokeback Mountain, all bent over and not frowning, looked constipated. Could she have maybe cracked a little smile? It's an Oscar, for crying out loud!

Ben Stiller's green screen antics produced the sort of polite laughter that you are embarrassed about later. And I will stick to my story that Lauren Bacall simply had trouble with the prompter. She's too classy a lady to attribute her problems to anything other than technical difficulty.

The quote of the night undoubtably belongs to Reese Witherspoon, the first actor to genuinely act thrilled with their award.

"People used to ask June how she was doing, and she would say I'm just trying to matter. I know what she means."

I will also admit to whooping with joy (just like the producers and their staff) when Crash won for Best Picture. It was a multi-layered look at human beings. It was an important movie, and it's nice to see the Academy recognize just how important it was this past year.

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Previously on "Lost"

Rousseau is mysterious. Claire is paranoid. Kate is trying to be helpful. One more hatch found.

Elsewhere on the island.... Locke is cranky. Jack is pensive. Eko is enigmatic.

I think I liked the show better when they were just on a freaky island inhabited by polar bears, wild pigs, horses, and shadow monsters. But I'll keep watching. Why? Josh Holloway. 'Nuff said.