This week’s essay is on “Checkpoint,” which has one of my favorite Buffy monologues. She smacks down someone(s) who really deserve it. And, as usual, there’s a lively follow-up discussion in the credits. You’re all invited, every time.
Things of Monday, just to make you all tired: I wrote 1,329 words on the current novel yesterday. Then I walked Kelly to the Skytrain, hit two groceries, came home to unload, breakfasted, set up the camera to shoot birds, changed, and went to a 75-minute hatha yoga class–this last was possible only because it’s practically in my backyard, and therefore requires no commute. I ran two errands at two banks, came home, replied to 75 student posts for Writing the Fantastic, pondered the three questions I can’t quickly reply to, answered 25ish e-mails, made Tuesday-Wednesday lunches for K and I, simultaneously made chicken mole for several nights’ supper, committed personal hygiene, schemed with K about our 25th anniversary trip (changes to the plan are in the works!) made ten Scrabble moves, did one load each of laundry and dishes, lamented the cruel fate that allowed a Kleenex to slip into the washer via someone’s jeans. I also made the usual weekly tweets about the Buffy essay. Plus, now, this post.
Somewhere in there I had time to briefly contemplate how Return to Cranford has convinced me I was wrong so wrong about Tom Hiddleston being hideous and unlikable, but that’s fodder for a Telewitterings post.
Here at Chez Dua last weekend, we watched Parade’s End, a five-part mini-series based on the books by Ford Madox Ford. Look! The ‘Batch is blonde!
And we enjoyed it very much indeed, but on one of our snack breaks, I said “They’re arranging matches!” Because for those five hours what we were watching was paced exactly like the subsumed-drama British version of the imaginary movie described here by Eddie Izzard in this not-safe-for-work excerpt from Dress to Kill.
Two episodes in, World Without End seems to be Game of Thrones, with twice the rape, some okay medieval history, and none of the magic. That doesn’t mean it’s terrible: really, this is just a listing of ingredients.
The story is based on a Ken Follet book, World Without End, and it’s set in England during the reign of Edward the II. There are a few familiar faces within the cast, most notably Miranda Richardson. The story hums along: this is not one of those tales that morsels out plot in tiny teaspoons–we’ve seen three episodes, and already months have passed and there’s been a significant bodycount. And, in fact, one of the characters who’s already died was played by an actor who’s been horribly killed in every single thing we’ve seen them appear in.
I’m up to “Fear, Itself” this week on the Buffy Rewatch. Enjoy!
State of the Office:
This weekend I went off for what turned out to be a 7.5 km walk with Barb in Everett Crowley Park and environs while Kelly went to yoga. We then grabbed up a Modo Car and went OMG, everywhere. Lunch at Triluzza, the recycling depot, the paint store, Gourmet Warehouse for hominy, the drug store, the produce market, and some other errandy place I can’t remember.
On Sunday, we had made a reservation to go spoil ourselves at the Urban Tea Merchant. We had a thoroughly decadent tea (which didn’t photograph as well as I’d like but what can you do?) and then returned home in a state of caffeinated bliss and attacked the painting of the first two walls.
And if you want even more of my telethoughts, my Glee essay, “Who’s the Real LIMA Loser?,” went up this morning on Smart Pop Books, and will remain available until Monday at 12:00 AM. (After that, the link will still work but for the excerpt-only portion.) The essay’s about the S1 Puck/Finn relationship, and is quite dated now that they’ve all graduated, but it’s still fun reading. I wrote it for the above-noted book, Filled with Glee: The Unauthorized Glee Companion.