Monday, September 12, 2005

Stolen from Achewood. Why is it so hypnotizing? I have no idea.

Friday, September 9, 2005

I still haven’t purchased a television, so for me the rich landscape of primetime programming is an untilled field, full of mystery and DVD-shaped holes for disposable income. Most of these pitfalls I’ve avoided, probably because boxed sets of Airwolf and The Simpsons don’t really speak to me. There are some plots, however, upon which acclaim is heaped in quantity. People dig, find something good, and occasionally I follow suit to find exactly the same thing.

Firefly was one of these discoveries, though I always have a nagging sense of dorkiness when watching science fiction. Certainly this series was far better than, say, the new Star Wars trilogy, but then again anything that refrains from Darth Sodomizing your senses is commendable. I enjoy a good amount of escapism in my various entertainments, and science fiction detracts from this because of the inherent flashes of geeky self-awareness.

Lost. This is my new squeeze. I’m positively enamored. Its immersion comes partly from the lack of spacecraft powered by dark fusion and implausibility, partly from good pacing and a mythology that is thick but manageable. The characters are meaty, but that’s not to say they’re immune to triteness. The plot twists are clever and sometimes expected. Tense moments? There are plenty.

To its credit, I believe we’re at a point where there is too much media, too many ideas, to consume. If we had to be honest, it’s probably all been done before. I mean, are there any new thoughts left to think? What remains, then, is how those ideas are presented–how they’re packaged, the sense of motion, whether they’re accessible. In that regard, Lost does pretty well for itself.

Thursday, September 8, 2005

Three hours, dear reader, three hours spent mucking around the trenches of pet care and, on a loftier level, thinking over the meaning of affection. Falfa, my slower guinea pig, has been feverishly itching himself recently, which in turn caused Le Pew to do the same. I thought this was the work of allergies, but mites may be the real problem. That’s what the Internet tells me, at least.

One coarse way to measure love, I think, is how quickly you’d drop some scratch to heal someone or something. The people closest to your heart? You wouldn’t hesitate to spend some money on them if necessary. A cat or a dog, even, may very well approach the kind of pricelessness conferred to friends and family. Complete strangers? That’s a little tougher. Sure I donated to the hurricane victims, except it took me a few days to pony up the desire to give. I’m pretty certain I waited too long to be a saint. Good thing that’s not a pursuit of mine.

Guinea pigs? I can tell you exactly what they’re worth. 32.99 plus tax at your local Petsmart. 50 milliliters of Ivomec–the treatment for mites–costs 69.99. That’s two brand new guinea pigs. While we’re on the subject of Petsmart, it seems I didn’t research thoroughly enough before buying my animals. The beasts they peddle aren’t exactly what you’d call “healthy” in layman’s terms, so you’re better off going to breeders, unless you want dormant mites as a bonus. Hell, if you do decide on Petsmart, you might as well visit a pet cemetery, exhume the companion of your choice, and leave a fiver on the headstone.

I disinfected their cage with tools galore yesterday, but in the end they were still itchy. I hemmed and hawed and finally decided to buy some medicine on eBay. Am I interested in healing the piggies, or do I simply relish the wholesale massacre of microscopic mites? Honest answer? Probably the latter.