I've just realised I can't possibly go out tonight. At least, not wearing what I'm wearing. I look like the uber frumpy never had sex school marm that not even the evil Mexican bandits are going to truck with.
Sigh. Maybe I could go buy another top, because it's the top that's the main offender. The shoes and skirt are cheap, but passable (to mein eyes), but this blouse, it's just so frumpy. It emits a zone of frumpy. I mean, if Jude were to sit down next to me (well, a girl can but dream), he'd have all his cool and sexy sucked off him like a black hole of ugliness (and yes, AP bought me this blouse - she really does want me to stay single and sex free until I'm 90).
Oh well, never mind. It was SVU anyway and I'm in the mood for Meloni. Today was supposed to be my day off, anyway, but I had stuff to do, so here I am. Had to set the vcr for stuff I'd planned to watch, because I thought no matter, I'll miss it, then I realised they had the dreaded FP noted beside them. Eeep. This is where my plan, the one where I don't mind missing stuff at the flicks 'cause I'll pick it up on cable, falls down, because I'm so busy I miss it on cable, too.
At least I managed to get home and watch tv last night. That might sound like nothing, and worse than pathetic, but for me, to get home and watch tv instead of just going straight to bed, it's a breakthrough. Of course I'm going to lose my RDO this month. C'est la vie.
And what did I watch on the magnificent occassion of me just walking out and leaving those dozen or so managers to battle it out over the content of that new subsite (by gladitorial combat, to the death, if I had a preference)? Angel, more Angel and yet more Angel, that's what.
Well, hey, it was St Paddy's day after all.
So, Angel season one and it's the one with the blind chick (::cough::Frank Miller rippof::cough::lots::cough::) and Lin with his momentary crisis of conscience and we get the Shanshu prophecies in Angel's room temperature little mits. Pay attention, class, this will be important later on.
Once again I'm supposed to think W&H are really, really quite evil chaps. Once again I think, feh, amateurs.
Okay, next up, Buffy S4 and Beer Bad. Oh well. Watch Parker get bopped on the head multiple times and wince. Now, Parker totally deserved being smacked on the back of the head, but I have a bruised noggin myself this week, so, ow.
Flip around while waiting for Who and I discover The Lin himself in some Angelina flick on Showtime. Okay, cool.
Flick back to Who. They skipped over War Games because of some rights dispute (Wail! Jamie!) but I'm treated to Spearhead from Space, which opens with meteors hurtling towards earth. Hmmm, strangely familiar set up. Liz Shaw shows up in an outfit that just screams 1970 (trivia: both Pertwees played oppisite a character called Liz Shaw, cf Bodyguards). And, squee! The Brig! The Brig! It's The Brig! Squee! (I really should have had him on my childhood crush thing but never mind). So we've got meteors and a chap who isn't human and a weird waxy bloke lurking about, UNIT, Hunter from Callan playing a reporter and some local colour in the form of a poacher who's gonna get it (cause poachers always do - my unfinished JP3 fic is at least law abiding in that regard). Childhood telly nostalgia happiness.
A cold plate tea follows, with me fumbling the remote when Tom Welling pops up on E! without warning. Apparently characters are leaving Smallville (Lana, if there's a god, but there isn't, qed Paris Hilton getting a second series) and Buffy and Willow might make the last Angel episode. Yay to Wil, boo hiss to Buffy (she says, but wait'll til her darkest shipper parts see it).
Then we settled down to Buffy again. The very last Buffy ever. Again. This time round it made lots more sense (because EvilChannelSeven do make free with the scissors) so I enjoyed it more. Loved Andrew's Oscar speech. Loved Angel getting all pissy over Spike and vice versa.
Angel: Still with their own apocalypse. So Jasmine is neutered then dispatched and don't we still have one episode to go? Never mind.
Without A Trace. Lotsa Danny. His hair is still waving about like Hugo a Go Go (a friend once described Hugo's hair as always looking like it was waving to someone in the next room) and making me want to pat it down. I dunno why but it annoys me. Lots of things in this episode strike a chord and make me wince and I start to wonder if Eric Close is still in this series, no, wait, there he is. As the episode closes we get a sad, lingering shot of Danny from behind, revealing the beginnings of a bald patch. Now I get it. Those waving fronds are the start of a comb over he's growing. Good idea.
Angel, again, whee. The Cautionary Tale of Numero Cinco. Now this has been badly reveiwed just about everywhere I've looked but I love it. I love just the attempt to tie in Aztec myth and practice (with a controversial reference to cannibalism, I note) with the Day of the Dead and Mexican wrestling and 50s noir early comic book pulp hero crime fighters and the Angel mythology all together in one seething mass of bubble and squeak. Frabulous! I love and adore this episode (and they didn't max out my Seasame Street Spanish, either). It's sweet, funny and sad and almost reminds me of classic X Files (re the mish mash of themes). And, there at the end, is Angel dabbling once more in the shanshu prophecies and I'm back where I started.
And that was my night. No Paddy Day drinking cause the local is a now a crater. Sigh.