laguera25: Dug from UP! (Default)
( Apr. 23rd, 2013 07:30 pm)


Did Eddie Cahill shave his head, or is that just a very short cut under the newsboy? Either way, he looks great, and what a lucky woman to get not just one Eddie hug, but two! ~jealous~


Happy Birthday, hot stuff, and may you have continued success in 2012.



Flack in a tanktop.... I wish I could be more eloquent, but the server monkeys who operate my linguo-cortex have abdicated their lofty positions to join the howler monkeys who reside in my underpants.
Happy 32nd birthday, Eddie Cahill. May this year be one of happiness, success, and love.
I survived my first Thanksgiving with my mother in thirteen years, thanks in no small part to the presence of one of the red-necked angels, whom my mother had invited. Angel the Elder is a font of stories, and his constant stream of gossip kept my mother from criticizing everything from my hair to my clothes to the fact that Mother Nature had made me smell like an anchovy's cunt and me from sniping and loudly declaring her an overbearing, insufferable control freak bitch. PC kept her from ruining the food with her penchant for overcooking. It wasn't a happy time, but no one left in tears, so I'm willing to call it a win.

Predictably, she's already making noises about Christmas. She wants me to come to Florida with her for eight days of family togetherness. I'd rather have my anus torn out with a rusty pair of pliers. My family means well, but they treat me like a child, and the constant benevolent condescension and infantilization is an affront to my negligible sense of personal dignity. After hours of being patted on the head and lectured about everything from the importance of bowel regularity to making sure my pipes don't freeze in the cold, and being interrogated about my finances, my sex life, and my menstrual cycle, I transform into that hateful, bitchy, bitter cripple bogey that everyone envisions when they imagine life with a disability. I don't want to undergo such a terrible metamorphosis, but polite attempts to protect my privacy, that secret place to which every "healthy" human being is naturally and absolutely entitled by dint of grunting intelligently, are met with dewy-eyed butthurt and wounded accusations of ingratitude. How dare I not be fawningly grateful for their interest in my sad, uninteresting life? The only effective defense against such encroachment and emotional blackmail is to be as venomous as possible to discourage any meaningful interaction. Unfortunately, this tactic also perpetuates the bitter cripple stereotype that so often undermines my social discourse with the rest of the world. It's an ugly, no-win situation that fills me with guilt, but if I don't roundly rebuff these psychological predations, then I'm left sans dignity and filled with a helpless sense of shame.

So, I'm staying here with Roomie this Christmas. We've already ordered a handful of gifts from Amazon, and as soon as I pay the doctor's bill next week, we might order a few more. We decided that Amazon would be a safer proposition than battling the viciously single-minded and territorial crowds at Wal-mart and Best Buy. Why should I endanger myself for the meager and fleeting chance to save twenty bucks on Fringe DVDs when I can--and did, oh, yes, I did--order Fringe S1 for eighteen dollars and have it shipped to my door, where no one will be waiting to shove me aside or trample me underfoot because I'm blocking their path to the eighty-seven-inch LCD TV with handy pocket rocket attachment and free HDMI component cable? We'll buy some cheap wrapping paper at the dollar store and have a quiet holiday at home, free of the stress inherent in dealing with family.

Besides, the next week is going to be ridiculously busy. My mother decided I needed a new roof, after all, and so, the red-necked angels will be coming to replace the roof. In addition, PC will be coming to remodel and re-plumb the upstairs bathroom and fit it will an accessible shower. I'm not looking forward to such concommittant upheaval, but both projects need to be done, and since PC is donating his skills for free, I can't piss and moan about when he chooses to donate that time. I just hope he wasn't being optimistic when he said it would only take a few days.

I finally saw an episode of Friends with Eddie Cahill as Tag Jones. He was so cute and looked frighteningly young. I just wanted to hug him and floof his seventies hair and pinch his baby-smooth cheeks. He's matured so much since then, physically and as an actor. It'll be interesting to see how he changes over the next ten years.
Yesterday, Roomie noticed that the computer was running several mysterious processes, so this morning, we gave it the figurative finger with Avast. Sure enough, it had acquired three trojans within forty-eight hours. They're all relatively new; WOW64main.exe emerged just six days ago. Anyhow, Avast! kindly torpedoed them into oblivion, and the computer is purring happily along.

The lesson? Norton is useless. I'd uninstalled Avast a few months ago because it and Norton were having a massive technological cockfight that was gobbling system and network resources. Since Avast finds threats Norton doesn't, it wins the proverbial shooting match.

The heavy rains resurrected the previously-patched leak in the roof in the upstairs bathroom. Ideally, I'd replace the shingled roof with a new tin one, but I know that if I even broach the subject, my mother will immediately renew her campaign for me to buy another house in the area and move again. I could negotiate with the red-necked angels and pay for it from my trust, but the house is still in her name, and I couldn't keep her out of the loop in good conscience. If the bathroom were the only problem, I might keep mum and learn to live with a wet ass, but there are other water spots in the master bedroom, and I don't relish the thought of waking up to a spot of impromptu water torture. I just know that this is going to invite the bull drama llama to the yard faster than the enticing scent of llama pussy on the breeze.

I fully expect the CSI:NY portion of the much-bally-hooed CSI trilogy to be a Mactimonious snorefest, but I'm hopeful that Criminal Minds will continue its trend of coaxing superlative performances from guest stars of dubious talent.

Dear entitled NY fantits,

I'm not sure if Eddie Cahill will get "paternity leave" when his wife gives birth, but fuck you and your self-centered whining. If the man takes a week off to be with his new family, he has that right, and good on him for using it. He's not your personal masturbation fantasy doll. It might come as a shock to you, but Eddie isn't Don Flack. He's Eddie, whoever that really is, and he doesn't need your permission to live his life. I'm sure he won't lose a wink of sleep if you stop watching because he misses a few episodes. Unlike you, he has his priorities in order.

Fuck off, you selfish little fucktits,

La Guera
Harper's Island, Week IX--SPOILERS )

-Dear CBS and the CSI:NY producers,

Fuck you for not submitting Eddie Cahill for consideration for the Emmy ballot. You submitted A.J. Buckley, but not Eddie. Forgive me, A.J. fans, but that's bullshit. I love Adam and think he's a brilliant complement to the show, but he is absolutely not more deserving of consideration than Cahill, who has been consistently superlative for five years. He should've been put forth on the strength of "Dead Inside" and "Pay Up" alone. That you ignored his body of work for the season in favor of Buckley's single outstanding turn in "Party's Over" is ludicrous and inexcusable.

Then again, you are the lackwits who submitted "Grounds for Deception" for consideration in the Best Writing category. You must be joking. That episode was televised badfic. Even ficcers worth their salt would've dismissed it as revisionist wish fulfillment. The only reason "Grounds" was put forward is because Melina wrote it while laying down heavy fire in the bathroom. To include it alongside the truly good "Yahrzeit" is an embarrassing joke and an obvious incident of ego pandering.

-Seeing Eddie Cahill so sloppy drunk and grungy makes me sad. I know he probably had a great time, and that most folks are social drinkers, but when you come from a family of raging alcoholics, booze
Harper's Island, Week IX--SPOILERS )

-Dear CBS and the CSI:NY producers,

Fuck you for not submitting Eddie Cahill for consideration for the Emmy ballot. You submitted A.J. Buckley, but not Eddie. Forgive me, A.J. fans, but that's bullshit. I love Adam and think he's a brilliant complement to the show, but he is absolutely not more deserving of consideration than Cahill, who has been consistently superlative for five years. He should've been put forth on the strength of "Dead Inside" and "Pay Up" alone. That you ignored his body of work for the season in favor of Buckley's single outstanding turn in "Party's Over" is ludicrous and inexcusable.

Then again, you are the lackwits who submitted "Grounds for Deception" for consideration in the Best Writing category. You must be joking. That episode was televised badfic. Even ficcers worth their salt would've dismissed it as revisionist wish fulfillment. The only reason "Grounds" was put forward is because Melina wrote it while laying down heavy fire in the bathroom. To include it alongside the truly good "Yahrzeit" is an embarrassing joke and an obvious incident of ego pandering.

-Seeing Eddie Cahill so sloppy drunk and grungy makes me sad. I know he probably had a great time, and that most folks are social drinkers, but when you come from a family of raging alcoholics, booze loses its appeal.
-I finally remembered to watch The Legend of the Seeker this weekend. This show is crap, but it's fun crap, full of camp and the soggy, breathless melodrama that makes many fanficcers tingle in their pants. It's got a love that can never be consummated(WOE, O, Woe), disgustingly moral heroes(die, Kaelen, die, you whingy, absolutist bint), and fabulously amoral baddies. Craig Parker's face was made for sexy, maiden-ravaging villainy. It's the eyes; they have a wonderful, malicious intensity when he's sniffing out the unsubtle aroma of do-gooder bullshit.

And how could you be so hard-hearted as to not adore Zeddicus? He's a powerful wizard, apparently, but unlike Tolkien's Gandalf, who is often remote despite his interest in the affairs of Men and the ultimate fate of Arda, Zedd is genuinely warm and human. He won me over when he admitted he was afraid of losing his powers because without them, he was just another old man with a walking staff. I like my heroes to occasionally sound like what they are in the best stories, which are ordinary folks bearing extraordinary burdens and choosing what is right rather than what is easy.

Richard is cute--he looks like Misha Collins, so much so that I wondered why Castiel was traipsing about the forest in a rustic jerkin and wool tights--but he's also a terrible weenie. This spineless little wet fart is the Seeker who'll vanquish the evil Lord Rahl? My ass. Lord Rahl could obliterate Richard with the force of a single disdainful sneer. Craig Parker's screen presence completely overpowers Craig Horner, who does his best, bless him, with a milksop character none but the creator could love or respect.

I'm a budding fan of this camp guilty pleasure, but I might wait until the DVD release before I get invested. For some reason, WGN America has lousy reception here.

-I've been watching Rammstein's Volkerball religiously of late, and I'm not sure why, though I suspect it's because I'm developing a rabid lust for Richard Kruspe. The man is HOT. He's actually gotten better with age, because he looked like a jut-jawed Neanderthal on the Herzeleid cover. Now I just want to tap him like a keg until the resultant chafing requires medical intervention. Nnngh.

If I were the sort who wrote RPF, I'd definitely be taking him for a fictional spin, but RPF makes me uncomfortable, and so I'll just have to restrict those plotbunnies to the private confines of my head. Besides, I'm not sure how much angst you could wring from the life of a rock band.

-Dear Eddie Cahill,

Your Rangers have taken a 2-0 series lead over the Capitals, but you have yet to blog about your team's good fortune. Shouldn't you be crowing loudly in your blog, perhaps even composing the entry while wearing your pants on your head in delirious celebration? I'm going to assume you're simply busy filming the NY finale. Otherwise, bad Eddie! No fanboy cred for you.
Oh, happy day! Eddie Cahill has updated his hockey blog, and it's once again a loaf of warm, crusty win. His sunny personality really shows in his writing, as does his intelligence. He's no MENSA or Rhodes Scholar, but neither is he a mouth-breather coasting through life on his jaw-dropping handsomeness. He clearly understands that yes, writing on the Internet does count and does reflect on the writer, and so takes care to be virtually presentable. Eddie's writing is like a freshly-showered and shaved Flack, neat and appealing. It's refreshing after wading through reams and scads of illiterate screeds framed as someone's innermost thoughts. Sadly, people treat their thoughts as they treat everything else, as disposable fripperies to be hastily tossed out and quickly forgotten.

People who take the time to wash their faces and tuck in their figurative shirttails are sexy. The vast hordes of Internet hobos make my eyes hurt.

The Graveyard Book, by Neil Gaiman--SPOILERS )

SPOILERS for the Beginning of The Angel of Darkness, by Caleb Carr )
-Part II of "Detail Man" will go up tomorrow. It's so long that I had to break it into two separate posts, and I'm not sure if I'll put them both up tomorrow or save one for Tuesday. Either way, expect fic tomorrow.

-Happy Birthday, [livejournal.com profile] torenheksje!

-I find it disturbing and creepy that fans on Eddie Cahill's IMDB board know the names and ages of his parents and sister and see nothing at all odd about sharing this information with strangers on the Internet. They even had one sister's married name, which is invasive in the extreme. The names of his family members are none of anyone's business and no one needs to know them. I hope the names provided are fake, because the last thing his sisters and parents need is to be harassed by a horde of fangirls who have no concept of privacy or personal space, and who wouldn't think twice about hiding in their azalea bushes for days at a time in hopes of catching a glimpse of Eddie.

-I'm glad I found out that Eddie only appears in This Is Not a Test for five minutes before I spent twenty dollars on the DVD. I would've been sorely disappointed had I found out after the fact. If I want to see him as Robert Forte, maybe I can find a clip on Youtube for free. Oh, well. There's still hope that The Narrows will get a DVD release eventually.

-I have decided that Flack needs a good pegging. How I'm going to achieve this, I don't know, since even fictional cripples have terrible balance and dubious stamina, and they're not that good at pelvic thrusts, either. Any sexual traction is gained by squeezing the Kegel muscles. If Rebecca tried to peg him, she'd either fall over and impale his unsuspecting bum with the strap-on, or she'd run out of steam before they got to the good stuff. I think I'm going to need some magical help to pull this off. A Stability Charm and a Revitalizing Draught, perhaps? Or maybe a self-propelled strap-on... Can't you see Snape's face if Rebecca asked him to put his l33t Potion-fu to use by brewing her some sexual aids? Even in la-la land, gimp lovin' requires patience and training in Sexual Special Ops.

-I'm rooting for the Arizona Cardinals in the Superbowl because I think Kurt Warner, who everyone dismissed as a has-been years ago, deserves the opportunity to walk around without pants as a demonstration of his greatness*

*Jeff Cameron, a local sports radio host, once opined that individuals who performed feats of greatness, such as wrestling an angry alligator for their dog or their nephew's severed arm, for instance, should be permitted to walk around sans pants.
The Eddie Cahill thread on Talk burns my brain. It's been overrun by hockey fanits of late, and they were recently discussing the death of Alexei Cherepanov, a 19-year-old hockey draftee from Russia who died during a KHL game on Monday. One of the fanits, possibly in a feeble attempt to remain remotely on topic, wondered how his death was affecting Eddie.

I...uh...

Here's a guess: It's probably not, you hair-chewing fuckdrizzle. Eddie loves him some Rangers, it's true, and since he's a decent human being, he might even feel badly that a 19-year-old is dead. However, I doubt the death of a New York Rangers draftee he likely never met has affected him beyond that fleeting twinge that so often accompanies a brush with mortality. Maybe he even paused to wonder why he made it to thirty, but Cherepanov didn't.

And then he wiped his ass, flushed the toilet, and got on with his day. Because in the end, he's emotionally stable enough not to chew his fingers every time something tangentially related to the Rangers stirs on the horizon.

Good God. Worry about Cherepanov's friends and family, but who cares what Eddie--and bless him, because I adore the Eddie he shows the public--thinks?

Sometimes I think many of the denizens of Talk are so stupid that they could devour their own heads and blink in molish stupefaction from the black caverns of their own gaping maws.

Shifting from Eddie to Flack(See what I did thar, DL fanits? It's called distinguishing fantasy from reality.), has anyone noticed whether or not Flack's badge number has changed? Eddie mentioned in his interview with the CSI:NY magazine that he'd approached the prop department to let him use his late grandfather's badge number beginning in S5. Has anyone noticed a change in the numbers between S1-4 and S5?

Anyway, since TV has been hijacked by the promise of two candidates earnestly saying nothing, I'm going to read and scritch a bun.
Now that the New York Rangers have been eliminated from the playoffs, I wonder if Eddie will do a final blog. He skulked off last year without saying goodbye to his readers, and I chalked it up to his busy schedule and his need for a manly sulk. If he vanishes again, then I'll call it a character flaw. Oh, well, everyone has them, and in the grand pantheon of human foibles, slinking offline after your beloved team's defeat is minor, indeed.

SPNfic has stalled once more. If I can't jumpstart it by tonight, then I'll set it aside in favor of Et Tu IX. Rebecca has quite a bit to say about California and loneliness, and I'm eager to see her reaction to Dr. Fleinhardt. I already know that her reaction to Charlie's Don, Don Eppes, will be spectacular. There's a lot of home in that Don, enough to hurt, and his devotion to the job above all else is going to rankle. I anticipate friction and at least one cataclysmic bout of savage loggerheads at the Eppes family table when Eppes opens his cakehole and opines that spouses of law enforcement officers "have to understand and expect to make sacrifices. It's part of the deal."

Oh, boy.

But that's several chapters hence. Part IX is just Rebecca, taking stock of her surroundings, the internal as well as the external, and shoring up her infamous and formidable defenses. I'm sure the quirky Dr. Fleinhardt will provide her with years of story fodder when Don's tired of talking about work. The white food alone...

Anyway, that's what I hope to accomplish, but I owe it to Gordonbun and SPNfic to give him another nudge before I return him to the hutch for further incubation.
laguera25: Dug from UP! (Default)
( Apr. 29th, 2008 11:56 am)
My tentative plan for the day is to watch Numb3rs S2 and then write some SPNfic before NCIS tonight, but I have a tendency to get hideously sidetracked by things like books and TV shows, so we'll see how the plan fares.

Right now, I'm enjoying writing this fic. I'm sure that a week from now, I'll want to grab the innocent yet ever-growing bun by the scruff and heave him out a high window, but today, it's fun. Maybe it's because I have no expectations for it, no unrealistic hopes of a feedback avalanche celebrating my genius and tai chi interpretation of Gordon Walker's backstory. I just want to tell this story and let it be, and if it generates buzz, that's gravy.

Lastly, a quote from Eddie Cahill's most recent hockey blog that fills me with glee:

The game ended no more than 2 minutes ago, and it’s taking tremendous effort to keep myself from throwing this computer out the window. Yes, I am one of those unreasonable and narcissistic fans who watches a game like that and thinks, “They must hate me, that’s why there doing this!” I can’t help it, I take it personally and I’m pissed. Hey, nobody’s perfect.

Hee! So much Eddie love. I'm the same way with video games. Despite the fact that I know the monster's conduct is governed by an impartial code generated by a sleep-deprived code god who doesn't know I exist, I become irate and hysterical when the boss kicks my ass. I am convinced, you see, that the monster knows I am crippled and is rubbing my infirmity in my face by being more savage than it would be with able players. It's patent rubbish. I know this. Yet logic disappears when the beatings begin, and I am tormented by visions of a goggle-wearing coder with a visible aura of funk, who laughs in sadistic glee as he inserts a "screw the gimp" parameter into the code.

It's reassuring to know that I'm not the only one with a persecution tinhat stashed in the back of the closet.
I am a happy Guera because Eddie Cahill finally updated his hockey blog. The more I read of his hockey blog, the more I wish he kept a personal blog. I know why he doesn't; the crazies and hangers-on and celebrity stalkers would pile on like funk on an unwashed twat, but I still wish for it. He's so articulate and engaging. I will admit that he and I would likely disagree on certain issues, but since he would never be stupid or insane enough to open his personal blog to comments, it wouldn't matter. Besides, I want to know his thoughts on TV, politics, and life in the real world where the rest of us live.

Gordonbun fought his way to the front of the ficcing hutch, so he's my next project. I'm going to finish Part II and set him aside in favor of Et Tu IX. I started writing late last night, so I only managed five hundred words. I'd planned on scritching like mad today, but I had an emofest, sleepless night last night, wondering how in the hell my life has gone so far afield of where I thought I'd be. Thus, productivity on the ficcing front might be negligible. I'll most likely read or watch brainless television until I'm tired enough to nap.

Cutting caffeine may be good for my body, but it's wretched for my soul. I haven't written like a house afire since I put down the Coke and tea. Hell, I'm lucky if I'm awake past 10:30. The virtuous might lead a goodly, upward-treading existence, but God places into the heart of every man a vice so that he may truly live.

Viva caffeine.
Today was much better than yesterday. Roomie and I were going to see a movie but decided none was worth $19. So, we puttered around the mall, where I ate chicken teriyaki(my new gastronomic crack, by the by) and bought white chocolate from the grossly overpriced Bourbon Street Candy Company. I also bought a stuffed walrus, whom I have named Bucky in honor of one of my favorite animal macros(I has a bucket).

If that weren't enough to brighten the day, Eddie Cahill is once again blogging in support of his beloved Rangers during the run for the Stanley Cup, and his ebullient squee is contagious and uplifting. It's hard to be grumpy when you're picturing mancake like Cahill sitting on the couch with a giant foam finger, a Rangers teddy bear, and a combination ballcap and beer bong on his head. When he gets his squee on, he sounds like Charlie Eppes waxing orgasmic about String Theory. So cute.

Speaking of Numb3rs, why do I suspect [livejournal.com profile] rainbowstevie is throwing a parade after last night and the return of a certain someone?

Sheldonbun continues to grow. It never fails. I choose a bun I think will be a svelte racing bun, 3-5,000 words, quick and dirty like backstreet sex, and when I'm not looking, a villain who resembles Bowler Hat Guy from Meet the Robinsons slips him a carrot hot-dosed with enough steroids to make John Holmes' legendary dong implode with the speed of its shrinkage; from grapefruits to Raisinets at the speed of light.

When I started, Sheldonbun was lean and mean, Orlando Bloom in Blackhawk Down. Now that he's threatening to hit 10,000+ words, he looks more like Ralphie May. Why must they all go from little squirt to hyperthyroidism gone wrong? If they have to go to the dark side, why can't they morph from Orlando Bloom to Danny Bonaduce after a three-county pub crawl, absolutely trashed and reeking of things you dare not guess or name, but still manageable? Little shits.

But I love them anyway. If I didn't, I wouldn't be letting Haldir!Bun gather strength in the lettuce patch.
For any interested parties, Eddie Cahill's L&O:SVU episode, "Folly", is scheduled to air on USA at 8PM EST and will replay at 12AM EST. I'm not sure I'm going to watch it because the ridiculously unl33t sting operation makes me apoplectic. If "Charge of This Post" brings out the anally-challenged, trying to-dump-in-molten-lava woodchuck in me, then "Folly" makes me look like an epileptic who got blindsided by a seizure in the middle of plumbing her depths with her battery-operated boyfriend. It's comforting to know that when on a sting, the NYPD will lurk far enough away that, should trouble arise, the stingee will have ample time to kill the bait.

Poor, sweet Tommy. He was an awfully nice kid, if not the sharpest tool in the shed. Eddie was still sporting the Super Mario Brothers goomba hair, and his acting wasn't nearly as polished, but it's still worth a look.

The first section of Gordonbun is finished, thank God. I just need to brush his fur and inspect him for nits, and to that end, does anyone know if Gordon Walker was 17 or 18 when his sister was taken by the vampire? I've got 17 stuck in my head, but I can't find my S1 discs to check. He told his story to Dean and Sam(or maybe just Dean) in "Bloodlust". The Super-Wiki says he was "almost 18", but I want to be sure. SPNfen can be canon-rabid. I once got pinged for not having read John's journals, which were hosted on the show's website, and later, I got dinged for not integrating comic-book canon. The website kvetch I can understand since it's accessible and free, but the comic complaint was stupid. I'm not shelling out cash for a medium that I don't enjoy just to retain the dubious privilege of writing SPNfic that will never, ever contradict any canon anywhere...until the next tie-in money grab.

But anyway, that's done. Now I must decide whether I should begin the second section and be a diligent ficcer or chuck the fat little prick back into the hutch in favor of the crackalicious allure of CSI:NY angst. Oh, Jiminy Cricket, won't you be my guide?
If anyone ever needed more proof that Eddie Cahill is a sweet and spicy awesomebread man, look no further than his most recent interview with CSIFiles. He's always so sweet and charming, and I love a guy with lights on on the attic. Of special interest to me is the fact that he didn't want Flack to call Devon his "girlfriend" and actively resisted the term. Of course, the fact that he was willing to engage in a "fling" marginally detracts from his idealized saintliness in my eyes, but it's much more bearable than the thought that he considered such an empty-headed breathing cooze potential spouse material.

I'm very melancholy and disconnected at the moment. Comments to and from my LJ are down, and my fannish endeavors are either stillborn(the CSI:NY forum that never made it) or met with a collective meh. And if anyone is jabbing ferociously at the keyboard, pecking out the rusty platitude of, "I just don't read fic/participate in fandom anymore", save the effort. It might be true, but it's no cure for the bizarre sense of alienation that ails me. It's like screaming into a bell jar and sealing it before the words can escape. They leave the mouth and fingertips, only to fall where they emerge, tiny lead zeppelins too heavy to reach their destinations.

Everything feels heavier than it should right now, and harder, and I don't know why.

Maybe it'll be better tomorrow.
The best part about Eddie Cahill's commentary on "Consequences" is his laugh. It's this rich, deep belly-laugh, bright and boisterous to match his million-watt smile. He laughs all the time, not in a drunken, stoner frat boy sense, but in honest delight.

And he's articulate, as always, and quick to compliment everyone involved with the show. I agree with neither his assessment of Pam Veasey's "talent" nor his reading of the dynamics between Mac and Flack in the episode, however. Veasey's skill as a credible writer is dubious and sporadic, and the conflict between Mac and Flack smacked very much of paternalistic overtones, most notably with Mac's heaping dollop of Mactimony after Flack surrendered the memo book.

However, he was full of joie de vivre:

EC: There I am, talking about the Rangers. Love those Rangers. It's playoff time, you know.

PV: Yes, Eddie, I know. You tell me every day.

EC(laughs): Oh. (very quietly as the scene shifts) Go Rangers.

Win.

Dear People Store,

I want an Eddie Cahill.

La Guera



I think I know why I've been so reticent to get the ball rolling on Part III of Et Tu. The reason is two-fold: first, I'm loath to acknowledge that Miss Plastic Happy Tits exists. Secondly, Rebecca isn't going to look her best here.

Some Probably Boring Meta on Flack and Rebecca )

I'm ascairt and doubting my oneness with the Eternal and Very Sekrit Order of Strunk and White.
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