But I couldn't find the time or the inclination. It's been one of those
Still, a few things make a post, don't they? Let's see.
Birthdays! There are, and were, birthdays!
Many past happy returns of the now-bygone day tojames_davis_nicoll (18th May), who almost single-handedly keeps me informed and amused about a plethora of fannish and general things. His cats, too; my world would be a little less richly wonky without James' cats, and his occasional contretemps with brassy squirrels.
Happy birthday, too, to robling_t (just yesterday, 26th March); may your Muse be beneficient this year, and may life be good to you.
Nor can I forget to wish all the best in the coming year to mostlikely2 (22nd March), one of the people still most apt to challenge the way I think, and one of the writers who can move me to tears of joy.
BB and I saw "John Carter" and liked it very much, thankewverymuch. A lot has been said about whether it's going to be merely a big damp squib for Disney, or The Biggest Failure Evarrrr (Jim Macdonald over at Making Light has a good post about it, and the comments are interesting too), but I don't care. Nor did I care that regular critics gave it the fish eye. For me it hewed to at least some of the pulpy, purple soul of Edgar Rice Burroughs' original John Carter stories. I grew up on those stories, and loved them despite the racism, sexism, colonial triumphalism and purple prose — no, wait, I love the purple prose — and the repetitive (yet somehow paradoxically endlessly inventive) plots and characters that make them almost impossible to read now. The movie kept what I thought of as the feel of Barsoom (who cares if the Tharks weren't 14 feet tall? They were still awesome!) while doing away with as much of the racism and sexism as possible. The two leads did a reasonable job, some of the supporting actors did better than that, and, apart from one or two completely ridiculous additions, the writers didn't do much more than make understandable plot adjustments. So if it's anywhere at all within the next little while, and not already banished to direct-to-DVD limbo, you might want to catch it.
I mourned the death earlier this month of Peter Bergman, one of the founders of The Firesign Theatre. If you're from Minnesota I know you understand. If you're Not From Around Here, I know you understand. If you know who Bottles is, if you graduated from More Science High, if you know that Deputy Dan Is Not Your Friend, if you wonder where Ruth is, or ... if you appreciated whatever the hell it was they did (try radio drama dadaism with a laughing heart, a razor-sharp mind, and the understanding that sometimes you have to think sideways. Or lookie here.), you understand.
I found proof that poutine râpée exists! Not poutine, although that dish is certainly lovely enough. This is what I learned to think of as poutine - and what I could never explain to people down here in Chicago, or even to Canadians from Ontario or Quebec. It's glorious, or awful, or gloriously awful, and it tastes really good with maple syrup. Reading of poutine râpée makes me remember my years in Moncton, with summer trips to the Shediac Lobster Festival. Hush. It's my youth. I'm not going to explain my youth to you at this time of night.
Oh, and I have a new laptop, since my beloved First Laptop gave up the ghost. More precisely, its processor became neurasthenic and, at length, put one hand to its pale forehead and collapsed, never to arise from its bed of pain.
Also, BB and I are going to Canada in May, courtesy of my brother. And the Doctor got a new Companion. But of those things I shall speak at another time.
Right now, I'm just grateful I managed to get back on the damned horse, you know?
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