Saturday, May 31, 2008

New Love

You saw that title and got excited, didn’t you? You were about to accuse me of holding out on you, weren’t you? Never fear, once again, I’m not talking about a man. Only this time, I’m also not talking about ice cream or an actor. No, this time, I’m talking about Netflix, and I think this could be “the one”.

Unlike the rest of the country, I had never used Netflix before last month. I’m an instant gratification kind of girl, and waiting a day or two to see a movie sounded like a bad plan. I know you can download from Netflix now, but I don’t love watching movies on my computer, and I don’t yet have the hook-up to transfer it to a TV. So, I had set my mind against Netflix. Picture me as Veruca Salt singing “I Want It Now” from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (by the way, you can get that song as a ringtone, which cracks me up).

But after I offered to sign up for my free two week trial to help my friends get “Pool Party” orders (order now, order often), I have fallen in love. Right now it is the perfect relationship. It doesn’t bug me when I’ve got more important things to do (ie television, movies, sleeping and the aforementioned ice cream eating). It’s always a little bit of a surprise when it shows up in my mailbox. Its sole purpose in life is to satisfy my wish list. Seriously, I give it a list, and click a button to make it so. And really, don’t more things in life need a make-it-so button?

I haven’t been this excited since Brad brought my groceries to my door after I ordered through

What’s next on my queue? The entire Square Pegs series on DVD! That’s right, possibly one of the most awesome and inspiring television shows of the early 1980s is now available on DVD. Let’s just say I identified with the feeling of not quite fitting in with the crowd as a youngster. Oh, hell, I still feel that way as an oldster. Plus, I’m pretty sure I still have a pair of jean overalls somewhere in my closet (hey, don’t judge, I didn’t say they were next to my Jimmy Choo boots….oooh wait, I could so rock that outfit, right? Right? Hello?)

It’s not that this new relationship isn’t fraught with pitfalls. It could stand me up, and you could find me forlornly staring into the great abyss of mailbox, alone and misty. I could be anticipating “P.S. I Love You”, and end up with “Final Siege 42”. It could become more expensive—but really what relationships don’t have their price?


Wednesday, May 28, 2008

Two More Things

On this journey of self-discovery (sounds better than a mid-life crisis), I’ve discovered that there are two more things that I don’t understand about my life. And because I’ve dragged you kicking and screaming through this wonderland called my life, I felt like I needed to share. Fear not—nothing has been bleached.

Dry Cleaning

I appear to be allergic to my dry cleaning. I don’t mean that I’m allergic to the chemicals. I don’t mean that I’m allergic to a scent that might adhere to the clothing after they have been cleaned. I don’t mean that the facility itself gives me hives, or that I have a phobia of the plastic garment covers. No, I mean I seem to have a complete and absolute mental block when it comes to picking up my dry cleaning.

“Well, it’s probably far away from you”, you say.

Generous of you, but wrong. I work in the same building as my dry cleaner. I pass it twice a day. I walk right by it on my way to my car every day.

“Well, it isn’t open during the times you pass it”, you say.

Yes, it is. When I leave my job and head to my car to begin my arduous 15 minute drive home (as compared to my 2 hour each way commute in New York), it is open. The cheery man who runs it is ready to do my bidding with a smile. But no, I just keep going.

“Well, you probably just forget that it’s there because you are so distracted”, you say.

Oh, no. I know it’s there. I can feel it calling to me. And I keep walking. I don’t understand. It’s as though the hassles of the day have been too much for me. I can’t take 3 minutes to deviate from my straight-to-home trajectory, even if that deviation is just a slight turn to the left. How does this happen? How did I get to the point where even small inconveniences are too much for my brain to process?

So, I’m setting a new goal: from now on, I’ll pick up my dry cleaning within the same month that I drop it off. Probably. You know, usually. Unless I’m busy, or something good might be on TV.


I was going over my monthly bills last night, and I came to a stunning revelation. I pay nearly $300 a month on communications devices. Between my cell phone and cell internet access, my two phones lines, my DSL and my wireless laptop card, I pay nearly $300 a month to communicate with the world.

Huh. You’d never know that I hate people.

Of course, I’m kidding. Largely. Mostly. Some days. Ok, I don’t hate everyone, but I’m not exactly the most loquacious person in the world. I essentially have three phones, but when a phone rings, I don’t answer it (because honestly, it’s usually telemarketers, and my cell phone is always turned to quiet). I rarely make phone calls. I call my family, but otherwise I’m not really chatty person. I can go for weeks without actually having a non-familial personal call.

This is insane. Most of the time I want the world to leave me alone—why am I spending a fortune to let it in? Email and internet are obviously essentials because they represent communication on my terms. But this phone thing? Yeah, that’s got to go.

$300--that’s a whole lot of missed shoe buying opportunities.


Monday, May 26, 2008

Remember When?

Remember when you just watched television and movies? Maybe this is just an LA thing that happens, but at some point, I stopped being just a viewer and became an analyst (hazards of my day job, maybe?). Now I know the ratings. I know the demographics. I know if a TV show has won its time slot. I know the box office for movies. I know what a movie needs to make in order to be considered a success, and I know what their advertising budget is going to be based on their production budget—which somehow I also know.

Is that just living here? Is that an example of LA industry-based osmosis? Do you guys do this, too?

Unfortunately, it doesn’t make me any better at guessing what networks are going to do, or what movie ideas will sell (and conversely, which ones won’t). For instance, I don’t really understand CW’s seeming disinterest in picking up Moonlight. Obviously, I’m a recent fan of the show, so there is a bias there, but I don’t get how CW doesn’t benefit. Even if only half of Moonlight’s CBS fanbase migrates to the CW, they’ll outscore all of the CW’s current shows. It’s not like they don’t do genre programming.

What really worries me is the persistent rumor that the reason CW doesn’t want any portion of the 7.5/8 million Moonlight viewers is that the fanbase is too old—that the lead (at 31 years of age) is too old. It’s not that I don’t comprehend wanting to build a tween/teen network—Nickelodeon has done the even younger demographics for years. But I don’t understand not wanting to grow your network beyond a certain age range. If you only market to 12-22 year olds, then what happens when your current viewers age? I guess they don’t care about holding on to them, and assume they’ll pick up the kids entering their age range.

So, they are targeting tween/teens, and a 31 year old male isn’t appealing? Let’s forget for a second that when I was in my mid-teens I was absolutely head over heels in school girl infatuation for Pierce Brosnan’s Remington Steele and Richard Chamberlain’s Father Ralph. What about Alex’s primary co-stars who are all under the age of 30?

As you know, I love Gossip Girl. It is just a little horrifying to realize that they aren’t in their mid-30’s, but actually portraying school age kids. And now the new 90210 2.0 is coming out, and from the early photos/info it is going to be every bit as sexualized. As much as I want to once again yell out “Donna Martin Graduates,” the whole movement is starting to make me cringe. Perhaps the reason that they haven’t picked up Moonlight isn’t because the lead and the fanbase are too old, but rather the series itself is too chaste: not a lot of drug use, very little naked-time, and no random let’s-try-being-a-lesbian-for-a-week scenes. If it helps at all, I’m perfectly willing to sit through a few nearly naked Mick and Beth sex scenes. No really… I’m a giver that way.

At any rate, let’s hope the Sci-Fi Channel decides that they would like a several million more people watching their programming and that the licensing fees aren’t too high for the show. And if you are a spirited fan who wants to get involved in the Moonlight campaign, head over to for information on how you can help keep the “old folks” employed.



Saturday, May 24, 2008

The Bed

My bed and I aren’t speaking, and it is Feng Shui’s fault.

Let me start by saying that I’m not a big believer in the practice of Feng Shui. I read a story about a guy who lost his job because of his strict adherence to the principles. It took him two hours to get to work every day because he refused to make turns in a particular direction. Seems to me the direction he was headed in wasn’t all that great either.

I know a girl who wholeheartedly believes in Feng Shui—she has many books on the subject to prove it. You would see them if you visited her because she’s a hoarder, and they are probably stacked and blocking the entryway as I type.

Despite this, I’m starting to think that I need to review the rules again because if anyone has a wastebasket in their love/marriage/relationship corner, it has got to be me. In fact, it feels like my apartment building’s dumpsters are in my relationship corner. Seriously, I’m betting that the random garbage belonging to 300 people is choking the life out of my relationship corner. I wonder if I can get the city to move the dumpsters. It’s probably not the strangest request they’ve ever gotten. In all likelihood, it’s not even the strangest request they have gotten this week.

But even though I’ve now decided to banish all the waste bins from all the corners of my world (because, really, I don’t want my prosperity corner to take a hit either), I’m still left with the bed conundrum. And it’s not the standard question that everyone asks every day: are my feet pointing in the right direction to bring harmony to the world? I mean, that’s obvious. The pioneers even asked that one.

Apparently, you aren’t supposed to have anything under your bed. If you have stuff under your bed, it blocks the flow of energy. If the love energy isn’t flowing in tornadic fashion, you’re screwed (or, evidently, not). It’s obvious that the person who came up with these love energy rules was not a single woman living in a tiny apartment with an entire lifetime of “woulda”, “coulda” and “shoulda”, not to mention “will-look-great-once-I-own-a-home-a” stored there. But if I pull the stuff out from under my bed, then I’m blocking some other energy passageway in my “earth” space.

And there is one more problem: if stuff under a bed creates a problem, what kind of energy blocking occurs when you bought the bed with The Ex in the first place? That can’t be good, right? Do I need to perform some sort of bed exorcism? Get a medicine man in here to cleanse the bed? This is Los Angeles, that service is probably listed in the yellow pages (do you think it’s under household items or spiritual growth?).

So, it’s obvious, my lack of love life is actually not my fault at all. It’s the bed’s fault. And it’s Feng Shui’s fault. Clearly. It’s the possessed bed of love life past that probably even has a wastebasket under it, and is obviously in the wrong corner thus point my feet into a deranged, solitary future, and it’s cursing all my current prospects. There are probably tens of … uh.. well, ten men… or one man that has woken up and thought “today is the day that I will finally meet the Kate of my dreams”, but instead, I wake up in the cursed bed and ruin it all.

Exorcism it is.

What do you mean buy a new bed? That would just be weird.

Kate, who is currently blaming her bruised tailbone on the possessed, bad feng shui bed

Sunday, May 18, 2008

The Grocery Store

If you asked people to describe the real life me, they are likely to come up with many different characterizations: uptight, strange, hermit, furtive, midget-like, etc. And if they were forced to try to figure out what I do with my time, they would hasten to point out that grocery shopping is unlikely to be on the list.

Food and I have a love hate relationship (unless it involves ice cream or chocolate or really anything that can make my ass expand), so it’s not really a surprise that I have only a passing regard for the place that food calls home. Needless to say, when people advise me that the grocery store is a great place to meet men, I cringe. Spending more time there is not a goal.

Well, I have to say, the people on “Team Kate” may have been correct. I did meet a boy at the grocery store today. He even made the first move. I was staring at the meat section (always a turn on for men), and I believe I was looking quite fetching. Perhaps it’s the way my t-shirt was wrinkled just so. Perhaps it was the way the alluring shade of gray of my sweatpants set off my ankles. One can never really know what sparks attraction. Whatever it was, he decided to stop and chat.

Yeah. The damaged ones find me.

I couldn’t swear to him being inebriated—it’s entirely possible that the alcohol was simply seeping from his pores from the prior evening’s activities. It was only 8:30am. I’m not entirely sure that I believe that he was the one who told a certain rehabbed actor where to get the crack that sent him to prison, but it was an interesting and well-told story. I’m also not sure how I was supposed to react to him telling me that he met said actor in prison. Because I’m guessing prison doesn’t give a lot of tours for fun, so that would mean… Boys, just a tip, “yeah, I was in prison with him” is not the celebrity pick-up line you want to use in all situations. Or maybe it’s just me.

Honestly, I kid about this, but this man was in a lot of pain. He’d been in an accident, and was still recovering. I’m not sure how the alcohol or the prison fit into the situation, but I’m pretty certain telling me that he had to leave the movie he’d just seen for a bit to grab a beer may have been a sign that all is not well.

Meanwhile, the security guard is trying to figure out if I’m ok because this conversation had gone on for quite a while, and wasn’t really quiet—but I couldn’t figure out if I was ok, either. Part of me was thinking, “all I’m trying to do is pick up some chicken and get the hell out of here—why does this always happen to me?” While the other part of me felt terrible for this person who clearly needed help and was thinking “this poor man, I hope he—hang on, is he staring at my breasts? He is! He’s staring at my breasts.”

The entire thing left me feeling sad. I hope he gets things worked out and that he recovers well from his injuries. Oh, and I also hope that I have my lethal spork in hand should be meet again, just in case.
“Team Kate” is so fired.

Kate, confused with these alien feelings of sympathy mixing with my comfortable feelings of annoyance


I have a guilty pleasure that I must confess: I love Gossip Girl. I love the clothes. I love much of the music. I love the intrigue and machinations. And much like after the first year of “The Facts of Life”, I wish I looked like a character named Blair.

I don’t love that they are supposed to be playing teenagers. In fact, it bothers me quite a bit. So, in order to watch my guilty pleasure, I merely think of them as manipulative 35-year olds who are amazingly well preserved. That way the show is more like Dallas (but without the shoulder pads). It’s like Dynasty (without the shoulder pads). It’s like Falcon Crest (without the… yeah, you get the idea).

(In the spirit of true confessions, I’m actually a bit more interested in Rufus and Lily (the parents) than any of the kids, most of the time. Plus, Rufus is ridiculously thoughtful and adorable.)

But all I really want to know is are we going to spend season two trying to figure out who shot Georgina? Because you know that girl is working her inner J.R., and it’s only a matter of time.

Think anyone at work would notice if I started signing internal memos with XOXO?

Kate, who thinks it is remotely possible that I’m experiencing a true phase of arrested maturity

Saturday, May 17, 2008


You know what’s cute – a little boy singing all the words to “It’s a Small World”. Totally adorable. It’s the kind of free-wheeling joy in life that people don’t exhibit after a certain age. We hide. We run away from open expression in Starbucks. Unless someone has dropped hot coffee on us, of course, and then we actually do freely express many, many things. But this young man is just having a good time.

Still. He’s still having a very good time. Still singing the words to that song. Still.


Still. He’s still singing. What a blessing…in disguise…a very hidden blessing.

Kate, trying to write a press release, but focusing on trying to find something that rhymes with vexing instead

Friday, May 16, 2008

Moonlight Call Now!

Sorry for the short notice. I just received this from a friend. If you watched Moonlight, go ahead and give them a call. They are actually soliciting this information, but I have no idea why, or if it relates to the show being picked up elsewhere.

URGENT: Call CBS Before 6PM Friday
CBS is polling Moonlight fans for demographic information. We don’t know their ultimate goal here, but we are cautiously optimistic. All you need to do is call 818-655-1779 and leave your age, city & state on voice mail. They will stop taking calls at 6PM Pacific EASTERN today (Friday, May 16), so make sure you call in ASAP!

Monday, May 12, 2008

That Aging Thing

I’ve always thought of aging as a linear thing. I’d grow older and the body/mind/spirit would grow older as well. The body would grow out, and the emotions would grow up. Well, I think we can definitely rule out that last one. The body is definitely growing out, but mentally and emotionally, I think I’m trapped where I was at 25—only minus the whole hopeful, happy outlook with the kicky, cynical edge for flavor. Now it’s just the kicky, cynical edge.

My brain is having a hard time accepting my age. At this stage of the game, no one is ever going to refer to me as precocious again. The “firsts” seem few and far between for me. Well, I suppose I could be among the first of my friends to go through menopause, but I’m not sure I really want to win that race.

I’m still contemplating what I want to be when I grow up. And then it strikes me that I am a “grown up” and that ship is sailing. I have a job. I have a good job. I have a job I’ve been doing for years despite the fact that it was just supposed to be something to tide me over until my graduate school loans were paid off. It was a transitional job that would allow me to pay the bills and give me time to figure out what I wanted. That was nearly 15 years ago. Either I’m the slowest decision maker known to man, or at some point I started sleepwalking. I suppose it’s no wonder that I still think of myself as a carefree 25 year old—it’s probably the last time I really tried to make a plan for my life.

Of course, I may be a mental 25 year old because I actually felt like I had a handle on my life back then, and I’d like to get back there. I was out of school. I was making money. I was living with The Ex, and absolutely believing that my audition for the part of “wife” was going well. Perhaps I’m unwilling to really look at what went wrong, so I’m living in a state of suspended animation—embracing my apartment, lack of emotional ties or obligations and Ikea furniture.

The body… well, the body is what it is—confused. I’m getting acne now. Now?? You should not have to worry about breaking out and breaking a hip all in the same year (ok, so the hips aren’t that bad, but you know what I mean).

So, does this change? Will I suddenly see the world as an advanced thirty-something rather than an insecure and befuddled post-grad? Perhaps the only way I will actually feel like a thirty-something is by dating someone who actually is 25. Well, ok. If that’s what I have to do, I have to do it. Fine. The things I do in the name of advancing mental health. Sigh.

Kate, enjoying the X-Files resurgence that was part of my 25th year, as well. Can't wait for ET tomorrow.

Sunday, May 11, 2008

A Madness Shared By…

You know what I’m doing right now? I mean besides typing, of course. I’m online at a place called The Haven. There are a lot of people in this one thread right now (so many that we’re likely to crash it), from all over the world, waiting to hear something about the new X-Files trailer that should be released at midnight PST ( Actually, we just recently figured out that it was supposed to be midnight PST. Some people, quite inspired really, tried to change their time zones to some remote locale in Russia to try to fake out the release time early this morning (I love the ingenuity!), but when that didn’t work, we began to oh-so-patiently await the legitimate release.

Ok, patiently is a bit of a lie. These people are pretty inventive, though. For instance, I just got a kick out of watching a video on youtube of a girl waiting for the trailer to be released. Yep, it’s a video of her waiting. There are also videos of people reacting to the short promo “therapy” videos that were released this weekend (if you haven’t seen them, go to aintitcool and refresh so that you can see both promos in the top right hand corner). These are my people! Now, a whole bunch of us appear to be watching the first X-Files movie to kill time.

I have to be functional at 5am. I can’t stay up until midnight just to see a trailer that I can watch all day tomorrow (provided work doesn’t block the stream). But there is something about sharing the madness, about reading the reactions as they happen that make this experience much more entertaining than can possibly be explained to non-fans. You know, also known as sane people.

Can you imagine what would happen if I turned this kind of energy onto a guy? Honestly, my not dating is probably a public service. Think of the damage I would do.

“I had you big time”

Kate, humming the X-Files theme song and wondering when the intervention will be scheduled

Saturday, May 10, 2008

"Pool Party"

Please go add the following movie to your Netflix queue: “Pool Party” by Farmview Films. If you accidentally happen upon something pornographic—that’s not it. I promise you, the actual film “Pool Party” isn’t even spicey enough for Cinemax early evening. Oh, wait...

Now, I know what you are thinking. You are thinking that “Pool Party” doesn’t really sound like a “Kate Movie” given my rants, of late. And you would be right, of course. A “Kate Movie” would involve David Duchovny playing some sort of heroic character declaring his undying devotion to my character. Because in this little fantasy, I am a celebrated and respected actress currently playing his love interest in a series of blockbuster, critically acclaimed films. And no, the fact that I’m not currently working as an actress does not diminish the odds of this little fantasy coming true in the least, but thanks for pointing that out none-the-less.

Despite the non-“Kate Movie”-ness of “Pool Party”, put it in your darn queue anyway. And it really doesn’t matter if you don’t currently have Netflix because Netflix gives you a free two week trial. Go! Go now!

I could say that this is a brilliant satire—a play on the ego sport sex culture we find ourselves in (borrowing the best phrase ever from “Made of Honor”), but that would be a lie. There are some good performances, and some moments of hilarity. But in reality, I’m asking you to do this as a favor because I know the filmmakers and the actors, and I’d like to see this whole independent filmmaking folly work out for everyone. Also, how many times do you order a movie that features a monkey clown? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Thank me later.

As I’m sure you can tell by the cover, it’s not really a family film. But the reviewers have recommended it to drunk frat boys everywhere, and since that’s absolutely the demographic the filmmakers were going for—I think they are taking that as a win.

Also, I’d like to point out that nothing was bleached, as far as I know, for this production.

Bonus points if you can find me in it, since I am in the movie (although I wasn’t supposed to be—long story). And no, I won’t tell you which scenes. Or what I look like. That would be cheating.

Kate, who seems to write in bursts these days

This Week

Things this week that made me go, “hmmmmmm”:

1. The bank near my building has two walk-up ATMs and a drive-thru ATM. The theory behind this doesn’t seem all that complicated: if you are in a car, you drive up to the ATM, and if you are on foot, you walk up the gradual incline to use the walk-up ATM. Does this seem really confusing? Am I losing anybody here? No? Well, you are officially at least 10 steps ahead of the woman I encountered earlier in the week who kept three cars waiting while she stood at the drive-thru ATM doing about a month’s worth of banking. Did I mention that both walk-up ATMs were empty?

2. Pedestrians in LA clearly have a death wish—there can be no other explanation for holding a conversation with another person while standing the middle of crosswalk. In fact, if you continue to have conversations while standing nearly motionless while a car is desperately trying to finally get through a traffic light, it’s actually entirely legal for that car to hit you just for being stupid. No, seriously, that’s an actual law now. I totally did not just make that one up. Nope. Not me.

3. Cars that stop right after they’ve gotten through an intersection just because they can confuse me. This woman in a big black SUV got through a stop sign, made a turn and then just stopped leaving the car that turned behind her in the middle of the intersection (because that driver did logically believe that her car was going to keep going). Since that second car was stuck in the intersection, the car behind it couldn’t proceed and so on. There were probably 6 cars involved in this little backup, all patiently (no horns, but I’m sure wild, internal, Chloe-style swearing) waiting for the SUV to move, again.

Did the SUV breakdown? No. Was it making another turn? No. Was it trying to avoid hitting someone crossing the street? No. It was just stopped. The driver appeared to be having some sort of a thought, and that was clearly too much for her. Everyone knows you shouldn’t multitask while driving and the act of contemplation must have been so rare for this woman, that she was stymied by it. Either that, or it was actually this woman stopping again so that the paparazzi could get a “surprise” shot of her driving. And for the record, I have idea who she is, or why anyone would give a damn about her driving somewhere.

4. Why is it legal to shove a camera up someone’s dress on a public street? Look, these pantyless, rehab girls might be asking for some attention, but it seems like the paparazzi are constantly going for the crotch shot now. I swear to you, I saw a photo of Jessica Alba (pregnant Jessica Alba) walking down the street. She was wearing a long-ish skirt. And there was a photog behind her trying to get his camera under the skirt. He was practically on the ground behind her to try to get this shot. What the hell? How is that legal? For that matter, why is it legal for tabloids and the like to make money off of someone else’s image? Surely if someone is making money off of you, you should be entitled to some of that coin. A lawyer I know explained it as the difference between entertainment and news. Now all I need is to explain to me why someone walking to Starbucks is news.

5. Nearly all the covers of the glossy entertainment magazines confused me. Who are these people? How does one end up on a non-reality, reality show? I mean, other than through a sex tape? It’s funny because when acting teachers used tot tell me that it was important to get “tape on myself” for casting directors, I don’t think they had the new “stolen” sex tape craze in mind.

6. Don’t worry. Anal bleaching and vaginal rejuvenation still have me confused, as well.

Kate, perpetually confused and cheering for the Cavs!

Tuesday, May 06, 2008

Who Do They Have?

Out of curiosity, who are the television/film role models for teen and tween girls? Are there young characters out there that are smart and honorable… and clothed?

When I was quite young, I wanted to be Nancy Drew. Grant it, she did seem to have some very cute Hardy boy friends, but it was the sleuthing that I admired. Not only was she savvy, but she was also unfailingly polite. What’s not to like about that? She had my priorities—school, righting great injustice and solid friendships. You know what else she had in the later years? A boyfriend named Ned who admired her for her intelligence and her persistence. He never once said (at least out loud), “damn, I want to hit that”.

As I neared the training bra years, I’ll admit that I wanted to be one of Charlie’s Angels. Guess which one? Sabrina. I wanted to be Sabrina. My hair may have been feathered, but I wanted to be Sabrina. She was smart and kind, and always managed to save the day. She was extremely capable and admired for her intellect—pretty much the only qualities I aspired to have. Also, she very rarely had to do any of it in a bikini (although to be fair, I do wish I looked like Jaclyn Smith).

My mid-teen years were spent with dreams of becoming Laura Holt. She had a wild side (tales of live-in boyfriend kept Steele guessing), but also an unwavering moral center. She was a strong, opinionated, inventive woman with a penchant for the tall, dark and mysterious. She was a crusader with a weakness for chocolate. While often dismissed by male colleagues, she made the world safe for all of us rebels. Plus, she looked great in hats.

And then there is Scully. While I’d like to avoid her abductions and health problems, no one can deny the character was as smart and tenacious as they come. Again, her intelligence was admired. You never felt like Scully thought, “hmmm, maybe something with a higher slit, more cleavage—and today, when I know the right answer, I wont speak up… I’ll just tilt my head winningly and let Mulder think he’s right.” Hell, no! People noticed Scully—all 5’2” of her. Not because she was beautiful (although she was), but because she was astonishingly clever, tirelessly dedicated and loyal. If anything, Scully (and Mulder) proved that smart is sexy and that insightful debate can make for some arousing foreplay. How could he help but be fascinated? How could anyone?

Who do young girls/women have now? Bratz dolls? Reality shows full of girls who are becoming famous for sex tapes, vapidity and breast implants? I hope against hope that they are looking to Hermione Granger rather than the current crop of panty-less rehab girls. Where are the crusaders? Are they being held hostage by the sex kittens (and have I inadvertently given Fox its next sitcom)?

Or am I just old?

Kate, who has suddenly realized that she was destined to become a detective and went radically wrong somewhere

Thursday, May 01, 2008

Brief Injury Update

I just injured myself lying in an inert lump. I was completely motionless while watching a baseball game. When…WHAMO…I got a cramp in my foot.

No seriously, it was a blinding pain, almost as though my foot picked up on the vague suggestion of movement brought on by my breathing.

I’m fairly certain the end is near.