Thursday, May 20, 2004
Yesterday managed, simultaneously, to be weird, wonderful, and unpleasant. I shall play against type and mostly ignore the unpleasant parts. But I will say that no writing was done. The morning was spent answering e-mail, which I'd allowed to pile up (and the pile-up had been aggravated by the aforementioned dumbassery with .mac) until it threatened to topple over and smother me. And after that, about 2:30 p.m., I decided to let "Alabaster" rest a day. But, fear not, I'll be back on it today. No rest for the wordy, and all that.
I needed the break from Roy Orbison and Buddy Holly, anyway.
We met Byron and Jennifer (Lee, not Caudle - but she was there, too) and Jim for pizza a Fellini's in Candler Park (I shall spare you the Ballad of the Slow Calzones). We ate and talked D&D, and then the six of us adjourned to our place for the final episode of Angel. And I have to say, I was very, very pleased with its end. This is not to say that I'm not sad to see it go. I am. There's now officially nothing left worth watching on television, save SpongeBob SquarePants (and that'll wear thin next week), Monster Garage, X-Play, and Showtime/HBO. I think Whedon and the other creators of the series did an admirable job of bringing it all to a close. My only gripe was that the showdown between Angel and Hamilton was so, so Neo and Agent Smith. But, otherwise, it rocked. Wesley's death and Illeria's efforts to comfort him were handled superbly. Gunn was Gunn again. Lorne's "last job" was perfect. Thankfully, the humour was kept to a minimum, and enough loose ends were allowed to dangle that nothing felt rushed or forced. And the "ending" was a study in the beauty of forestalled resolution. These last few episodes have, like the stillborn Firefly, been Whedon at the top of his form. Too bad Angel's skillful departure reduces television fantasy and sf to the sorry likes of Stargate SG-1, Charmed, and Enterprise.
Neil called later on, to tell me I've been invited to be a Guest of Honor at Fiddler's Green in Minneapolis this November. I accepted, of course. We talked for a while about Teller's monkey room, the rather silly eeeevils of Hollywood, blogging, and suchlike, and then I watched the end of Godzilla and George Pal's The War of the World's on AMC. It was chopped up by commercials and pan-and-scan, but I was sleepy, and it was a good way to transition from consciousness towards the not-awake place.
Only 5 days, 12 hours, 29 minutes, and 32 seconds remaining until my -0th birthday (and apologies to Llar'en for my having not gotten his neat counter-clock thingy up; I'll try to do that this evening). It's all just too frelling weird. I guess I've missed my chance at a tragically young death, pumped full of heroin and absinthe in some Paris shithole. Ah, well. We can't have everything, I suppose. I've just added new stuff to my Amazon wishlist, because most of the original stuff has been (or is being) purchased. I might be old as the hills, but at least I get good dren. I know it's sort of like being sent to the electric chair with a big bag of jelly beans, but we fossils takes what we can gets.
10:42 AM
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