March 6th, 2007

Hurley oh shit

pouringsand has a few things to say to LOST...

Dear Lost,

From the moment I was forced to sit down and watch one of your second-season episodes, I was hooked. By the end of that fateful hour, I was committed to figuring out what the bloody hell I had just seen, and sat down at my very first opportunity to watch your entire first season on DVD. And then I completely legally (*cough*) downloaded all your other episodes and became an obsessive nut. I admit it--I stalked you, Lost.

I even played your ARG.

And then... well, the ardor cooled. I began to long for the days of your mysteries, of your flashbacks--all the amazing, moving, stirring secrets and insights into the past that made you you. You developed an unhealthy obsession with Jack, and destroyed the mystique of the Others by bringing us deep inside their cruelty, drama and pettiness. Oh, I found myself thinking, they're just assholes. How unsatisfying.

I do share in the blame. Because of my infatuation with you, my expectations for your return this year were perhaps unreasonably high. But I just can't be arsed to care about Ben or Jack or that Blonde Other-Chick Who Definitely Is Not Libby And/Or Interesting, Unfortunately the way that you obviously wanted me to. I tried, I really did. But I miss the things we used to share and all the peripheral characters we loved that you seem to have forgotten... it just hasn't been the same.

And then... the Desmond episode. I tried so hard not to fall for you again, but you reminded me of what we'd had, of the amazing times we'd spent together. I almost couldn't let myself believe things would ever be that good again, and afterward, when you brought more of that stupid Others-drama back into my life, I thought it had been a fluke, I really did.

But with the Hurley episode on Wednesday, I knew again that buried beneath that plotline I couldn't give a shit about was the real you, the you I knew and loved. There you were in all your glory, and it was as if we'd never had a falling out. I cried, I cheered... my hope was restored as surely as Hugo's. There is still something great between us!

I love you again, I really do, and I remember why I did before. Don't fuck it up. Please?

Yours truly (for now)--



Pirates vs. Absinthe: the sequel

oakenguy illustrates the payoff of reading gastronomical history:

I just read a rather boring paragraph about various restaurants in 19th century New Orleans.

That was not the exciting part.

It ended with a description of one particular bar-room.

Still not exciting.

The final sentence, however, ended with "...and tradition points to it as the place wherein General Andrew Jackson and the pirate Jean Lafitte planned the Battle of New Orleans over an absinthe frappe."


This needs to be turned into a movie. It'd be like My Dinner With Andre, only with absinthe. And pirates. And a British spy. And two of the most macho men walking the earth in 1812 sharing a drink with a single straw.

Context is busy making blood orange saffron tartlets right here.
Oh nose!

Of matrimony and fandom...

cinsangel contemplates her wedding guest list:

Damn we know a lot of people. Between the Gargs and the SCA that....a lot of freakin people. But I knew I'd have a lot of guest when I decided not to elope to Vegas. its gonna be fun. I just want to get all my SCA and Garg friends in the same room. It will be like comic con..but smell better and no stalkers.

Context can smell them a mile away.  Public, but QWP anyway.

I don't think anyone is ever prepared for Alan Moore

puritybrown speculating about Zombie movies:
They always strike me as a symbolic representation of the middle classes' fear of the working class, which means that zombie stories are fundamentally about class hatred. I freely admit that this is probably not what the creators of zombie stories have in mind, but then when JM Barrie wrote Peter Pan, he didn't think to himself "I bet in about a hundred years' time an occultist from Northampton will use my characters as the basis for some very expensive porn." The interpretive freedom of the reader is a wonderful thing.

Context totally spoils both Shaun of the Dead and 28 Days Later.