Happy Wednesday

Today's going to be pretty good, I think.

I don't realize I'm doing it, but I must touch my computer monitor a lot. But why? Why would I do that?

I borrowed some movies from the library. Oklahoma, The King & I, The Apartment, and French & Saunders, which I watched last night. I've been a fan of F&S since their appearances on The Young Ones and then, of course, Ab Fab. This tape, "Living in the Material World," was hilarious. I have never really understood how BBC programming works, so I can't tell if this was individual episodes strung together or a special program, because it was two hours. Reminded me a bit of a Tracy Takes On... or Brain Candy. Regardless, it's well-worth hunting down and viewing if you like Brit-com, parodies of American TV shows (Baywatch, Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman), foreign films (Bergman, Fellini), and Madonna.

I'll leave the Rodgers & Hammerstein for the weekend. More opportunities to sing along without disturbing the neighbors. Speaking of, I really want to see the revival of Flower Drum Song, as its one of the very few R&H shows I've never seen. If anyone wants to go, please let me know. Free tickets are a plus.

I also borrowed a book which I am returning today. Some nutcase publisher thought that Laurell K. Hamilton's latest book, Narcissus in Chains, was suitable for hardcover. The continuing story of intrepid and overly bitchy vampire hunter, Anita Blake, spirals into preteen-lust grade pulp in the latest installment. In my own defense, I read the first eight books of the series in about a month, a couple of years ago. My roommate had them all in paperback, and they were easy reads, about one of my favorite subjects. I knew they were trash, but the fact that they were in dogeared paperback made it okay. Isn't it considered a poor writing style to write "reeeally" to show emphasis outside of dialogue? How about, "The top was actually, gasp, a well-fitted halter top." She writes vaguely of things like "metaphysical stuff," "power," "auras," and "vampire marks," but she never makes it clear that she really understands her own mythology, so how am I supposed to understand it? At least the first few books focused more on her work with the police and with raising the dead. This book is sex, sex, sex from page one, and way too many descriptions of character's outfits. I was embarrassed that someone on the train might be reading over my shoulder. I may not be a writer, but I know when writing stinks, and this book is pure Limburger. Oy. Worse than Caleb Carr's Killing Time. Even worse than that King/Straub grotesquerie Black House. This one doesn't even get past page 51 with me. Buh-bye.