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I've gotten lax in updating this month. In my defense, any blog post written last night would've read, "Zlurg hughn fsnod gruppen hingblott stove fire hungsgizzenblodd," and since this marks post 1400, I wanted it to be mostly literate and legible.
Thursday: Roomie and I had planned to see No Country for Old Men for Valentine's Day, but when I awoke and discovered that the Red Bloat had come in the night, we scuttled those plans in favor of ordering wings and watching Surf's Up. And yes, I felt vaguely guilty about inhaling wings after watching Chicken Joe from Sheboygan.
Shortly after watching Surf's Up, Roomie set the kitchen on fire while making tea. A splodge of grease ignited in the grease trap beneath the burner and set off the smoke detector. I was on the toilet, recycling my evening repast, and so the sudden blare of shrieking sirens and the strobe flash of In Case You Were Deaf, This Is Your Cue to Get the Hell Out came as quite the inconvenient surprise. I was sure that I was about to rush into the frigid night air with my unfinished business trailing behind me for the complex(and the exceedingly hot firemen that would surely just happen to arrive to douse the blaze)to see.
NB: I know why they have the flashing lights on the fire alarm, and I'm glad for anything that helps deaf folks escape a fire, but I was convinced that Gloria Gaynor was going to leap from my shower, microphone in hand, bellowing, "You Won't Survive".
Anyway...
Fortunately for me and Roomie and the eyesight of the firemen, the fire went out as soon as Roomie blew on it and only scorched the drip pan. No firemen necessary. He spent the rest of the night casting wary, sidelong glances at the stove, convinced that tongues of flame were simply waiting until his back was turned to lap greedily from the wells in the stovetop. I didn't get my tea, and he refuses to cook on the stove until he buys new drip pans tomorrow.
Shortly after Roomie nearly immolated everything we owned and doomed me to death with char-grilled poop barbecued onto my ass cheeks, we watched Supernatural, which was mediocre. The plot had potential, but it felt exceedingly anemic, with Dean's repeated deaths coming fast and furious and becoming more and more outlandish. Even the reappearance of the Trickster from S2 felt flat. I can believe revenge as its motive, I suppose, but I don't understand why it would find greater joy in tormenting Sam than it would in Dean. And though its parting comments to Sam about him being Travis Bickle in a skirt were meant to be cryptic and a hip pop culture reference, I found it vague and dated.
I admit that when Sam went on his cross-country killing spree after Dean's final "death", I started to wonder if Dean and Ruby hadn't entered into a clandestine deal with the Trickster. I thought Dean had "faked" his death in order to train Sam as a solo hunter and to acclimatize him to the eventual reality of life without Dean. My niggling suspicions were nominally bolstered by the Trickster's uncharacteristically gentle parting speech to Sam, most particularly the line about "this(life without Dean)being what he had to look forward to." I'm sure that's not the route intended by the scriptwriter, however, as such nuance can hardly be expected from an otherwise brainless, hammy episode. It might've worked better had Dean's "deaths" been handled differently, but they were played for cheap laughs, and few of the gags worked. In fact, none of the "funny" ones elicited so much as a snort.
One of Supernatural's biggest faults is that it often becomes so enamored of its wink-wink, nudge-nudge ability to poke fun at itself that it chooses to do so at the expense of the story. The writers would rather score cheap fan points and whore themselves and their characters out for two seconds and half an LJ post of squee than tell a good story every week. "Dream a Little Dream of Me" was good story; "Mystery Spot" was a lump of gratuitous fangirl-diddling.
Thankfully, next week's two-hour hooraw promises a Night of the Living Dead return to form. From the looks of it, I'd say the producers decided to direct as if it were the season finale in case it wound up being exactly that. We'll see if it can roll into the strike-induced hiatus on a strong note.
Friday: I went to class, where I did nothing of note but did learn that we will be watching graphic footage of female circumcision on Monday. Whee. Then I ate at the diner and came home to veg in front of police chases and stupid human tricks. If I can get my head out of my crampy butt, I'm going to scritch Gordonbun, but if not, I'm going to sulk that Roomie refuses to cook or make tea until he buys a new drip pan.
Thursday: Roomie and I had planned to see No Country for Old Men for Valentine's Day, but when I awoke and discovered that the Red Bloat had come in the night, we scuttled those plans in favor of ordering wings and watching Surf's Up. And yes, I felt vaguely guilty about inhaling wings after watching Chicken Joe from Sheboygan.
Shortly after watching Surf's Up, Roomie set the kitchen on fire while making tea. A splodge of grease ignited in the grease trap beneath the burner and set off the smoke detector. I was on the toilet, recycling my evening repast, and so the sudden blare of shrieking sirens and the strobe flash of In Case You Were Deaf, This Is Your Cue to Get the Hell Out came as quite the inconvenient surprise. I was sure that I was about to rush into the frigid night air with my unfinished business trailing behind me for the complex(and the exceedingly hot firemen that would surely just happen to arrive to douse the blaze)to see.
NB: I know why they have the flashing lights on the fire alarm, and I'm glad for anything that helps deaf folks escape a fire, but I was convinced that Gloria Gaynor was going to leap from my shower, microphone in hand, bellowing, "You Won't Survive".
Anyway...
Fortunately for me and Roomie and the eyesight of the firemen, the fire went out as soon as Roomie blew on it and only scorched the drip pan. No firemen necessary. He spent the rest of the night casting wary, sidelong glances at the stove, convinced that tongues of flame were simply waiting until his back was turned to lap greedily from the wells in the stovetop. I didn't get my tea, and he refuses to cook on the stove until he buys new drip pans tomorrow.
Shortly after Roomie nearly immolated everything we owned and doomed me to death with char-grilled poop barbecued onto my ass cheeks, we watched Supernatural, which was mediocre. The plot had potential, but it felt exceedingly anemic, with Dean's repeated deaths coming fast and furious and becoming more and more outlandish. Even the reappearance of the Trickster from S2 felt flat. I can believe revenge as its motive, I suppose, but I don't understand why it would find greater joy in tormenting Sam than it would in Dean. And though its parting comments to Sam about him being Travis Bickle in a skirt were meant to be cryptic and a hip pop culture reference, I found it vague and dated.
I admit that when Sam went on his cross-country killing spree after Dean's final "death", I started to wonder if Dean and Ruby hadn't entered into a clandestine deal with the Trickster. I thought Dean had "faked" his death in order to train Sam as a solo hunter and to acclimatize him to the eventual reality of life without Dean. My niggling suspicions were nominally bolstered by the Trickster's uncharacteristically gentle parting speech to Sam, most particularly the line about "this(life without Dean)being what he had to look forward to." I'm sure that's not the route intended by the scriptwriter, however, as such nuance can hardly be expected from an otherwise brainless, hammy episode. It might've worked better had Dean's "deaths" been handled differently, but they were played for cheap laughs, and few of the gags worked. In fact, none of the "funny" ones elicited so much as a snort.
One of Supernatural's biggest faults is that it often becomes so enamored of its wink-wink, nudge-nudge ability to poke fun at itself that it chooses to do so at the expense of the story. The writers would rather score cheap fan points and whore themselves and their characters out for two seconds and half an LJ post of squee than tell a good story every week. "Dream a Little Dream of Me" was good story; "Mystery Spot" was a lump of gratuitous fangirl-diddling.
Thankfully, next week's two-hour hooraw promises a Night of the Living Dead return to form. From the looks of it, I'd say the producers decided to direct as if it were the season finale in case it wound up being exactly that. We'll see if it can roll into the strike-induced hiatus on a strong note.
Friday: I went to class, where I did nothing of note but did learn that we will be watching graphic footage of female circumcision on Monday. Whee. Then I ate at the diner and came home to veg in front of police chases and stupid human tricks. If I can get my head out of my crampy butt, I'm going to scritch Gordonbun, but if not, I'm going to sulk that Roomie refuses to cook or make tea until he buys a new drip pan.
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