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All I have to say about the preview clip for tomorrow's CSI:NY is pbbbbbbth. I don't want to say more until the episode airs because I don't want to be the mean-spirited old codger who harshes everyone else's fannish squee because the writers are so determinedly pissing on mine. Besides, there's always the remote chance that the scene never makes the air because I quashed it with the power of my brain. On the bright side, we finally get a glimpse of Flack's apartment.
Dear Paranormal State,
Please to be faking it better. Your attempts at drama and high tension are embarrassing. In last night's turgid episode, Ryan Buell, your fearless(and charisma-less)leader was supposed to be ill, and so, Sergey and the other drama program rejects bravely soldiered on, asking inane questions and fending off credibility with their impressive array of overwrought expressions.
But lo, a few hours after Ryan was declared deathly ill by a grave Sergey, he miraculously appeared on the client's doorstep, looking as though he'd suffered nothing more horrendous than the indignity of accidentally locking himself in a rest stop piss pit. I expected him to look like a victim of Captain Trips, with bruised, sunken eyes, glands bestudded with tumescent goiters, and the Snotty Mississippi running from his raw, generic tissue-assaulted nose. Instead, he looked like a college student who'd just smelled the lingering legacy of his best friend's three-bean burrito. You could've sprung for some cheap makeup. If you're going to shovel bullshit, go for the gusto. Shovel it with flair, dammit.
La Guera
Dear Paranormal State,
Please to be faking it better. Your attempts at drama and high tension are embarrassing. In last night's turgid episode, Ryan Buell, your fearless(and charisma-less)leader was supposed to be ill, and so, Sergey and the other drama program rejects bravely soldiered on, asking inane questions and fending off credibility with their impressive array of overwrought expressions.
But lo, a few hours after Ryan was declared deathly ill by a grave Sergey, he miraculously appeared on the client's doorstep, looking as though he'd suffered nothing more horrendous than the indignity of accidentally locking himself in a rest stop piss pit. I expected him to look like a victim of Captain Trips, with bruised, sunken eyes, glands bestudded with tumescent goiters, and the Snotty Mississippi running from his raw, generic tissue-assaulted nose. Instead, he looked like a college student who'd just smelled the lingering legacy of his best friend's three-bean burrito. You could've sprung for some cheap makeup. If you're going to shovel bullshit, go for the gusto. Shovel it with flair, dammit.
La Guera
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