Blast and damn! Eddie Cahill was all over Miracle, all right, but despite him being a hockey player, there was no shirtless action to be had. I should have known; according to Disney, children come from Easy-Bake Ovens. Aside from the hormonal privation, however, the movie was wonderful. Even Kurt Russell, ancient and runnelled as a Pompeiian fresco, turned in a great performance. If you're looking for an exuberant, feel-good movie, I highly recommend it.

As usual, my glasses need replacing. I'm getting tension headaches again. It never fails; they conk out after 12 months exactly. Part of it is my fault because I spend so much time ficcing and surfing on this blinking box, but I'm sure my congenital amblyopia doesn't help. Of course, mother is refusing to help with the cost, so it may be January before I can replace them. Here's to the day my vision decides it can get no worse.

Life is hardly all bad, though. "Going Under" is rounding the homestretch, and if I'm lucky, it'll be finished and available by semester's end, which is the 16th. I'm interested to see what the response will be. Most of my flist have admitted that they don't watch CSI: NY, so critique of characterization might be too much for which I can hope, but even if you don't know Flack from a hole in the ground, please toss in your two Knuts as to pacing, readability, and overall impact.

Well, off to fic and maybe watch a few episodes of CSI Season Five.
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