Well! This resolution out of the New Hampshire legislature is a little bit mind-blowing; it makes me want to rush outside and shoot firearms into the air shouting "yeehaw!". The gist of it is a declaration that the Federal Government will be limited to the powers granted it by the Constitution (imagine such a thing) and all others returned to the state (i.e. the 10th Amendment) or risk "nullification of the Constitution". It will never pass into law but maybe the idea could catch on.... Up the new Rebs!

"There's a problem with the vaccine! The subject is turning into a monkey!"
"Damn! We would have noticed this when we tested it on the monkeys except that they were..."
"Right... Already monkeys!"

I wear very thick, abrasive wool socks all day, very unpleasant socks that make my feet itch, sweat, and despise me. Then when I get home and spend the evening watching various cartoon programs, eating meals from various cans, I leave the socks on, as if to punish my feet for being annoyed by the socks, to torture them into a more pleasant attitude tomorrow. Then when I climb into bed, my face all sleepy from weariness, I remove the socks. Can you imagine what it's like? Can you imagine what it's like?

BAM!

We've got cold winter here now; squirrels keep trying to sneak into the heater cabinet, and I grow weary of shooting buckshot at them, lousy tree-rats. In the cold winter evenings I turn the heat down to the low 60s and sit around with mighty bowls of porridge wearing nothing but my big wool socks and a tee-shirt. And pants, also pants. Goosebumps burst out on my arms, my teeth chatter, my knees knock together, squirrels clang around in the vents. Then I put on a sweatshirt. Can you imagine what it's like? CAN YOU IMAGINE WHAT IT'S LIKE?

Now this is more like it! After several episodes that were so far above average that I was left with nothing to complain about we finally get back to the BSG suck-hole. Thank you Jane Espenson for restoring my bitterness, reviving my bile, and for making me annoyed again! Why without you I wouldn't have imagined that a group of raggedy-ass cult wackos led by the guy who betrayed all of humanity twice could ever possibly convince Wino-Adama to give them crates full of automatic weapons, but now I know! Makes perfect sense really; I hear they hand out guns to starving refugees all the time on the USS Abraham Lincoln (problems with gangs on the lower decks).

Wino-Adama is far more concerned with synthehol and black goop these days; I loved all those dark, gloomy scenes of people cutting metal and painting girders with the goop while the erstwhile admiral looks on like he's got a herniated disk. What suspense! Would the sparks leap left or right this time? Would the black goop drip onto the floor? Wait here while I watch some paint dry for the next hour then I'll get back to some more ironic complaining.

For all of Wino-Adama's mad staring and drinking, the centerpiece of this episode is the recently reborn Ellen Tigh. Here she steps off a transport ship and makes out with the guy who killed her the last time they met. There she has a cat-fight with old patchy's new cylon baby-momma, and proving she can be shrill enough to actually kill an unborn child. Gone are all the cool resurrected memories that we got out of her last week; all that stuff is boring! Jane knows this audience prefers soap-opera to space-opera, that's why we watch the Sci-Fi Channel.

You know, I think Espensen deserves a Daytime Emmy for this achievement. And maybe a regular one too. I especially enjoyed how she had Tyrol vote to leave the ship, reversing everything we've come to understand about the character, in order to manufacture some dramatic tension. I hear all the major writing workshops are teaching this technique now: why confuse an audience with character development when you can just have them evolve off-screen to suit whatever plot motivation you need?

Here's hoping for another long boring trial episode next week.

Ah the Academy Awards! This year, so the advertising insisted, great changes would unfold; and indeed, they turned what once was the year's biggest pud-pulling contest into a full-scale, hide-your-eyes wank-fest. The main innovation was a sort of panegyric ceremony for each set of nominees; a group of former winners of that category would sashay themselves onto the stage and take turns heaping massive dumps of acclaim onto each nominee while trying their best not to appear jealous, bitter, over-medicated, or drunk (about a third were successful). Meanwhile the nominee must sit and absorb this praise as their due for being so very talented and so very, very special. None seemed uncomfortable about it, with the sole exception of Meryl Streep who seemed to possess a modicum of humility; but then she *is* one of a very few in that crowd who actually has some acting skill. These spasms of communal self-flattery were interspersed with lots of fruity dance numbers featuring Wolverine (a spectacle disturbing enough to turn away even those hard-boiled comic-book geeks not yet disgusted by comic filmizations like X-Men 3) and brief clips from movies, most of which seemed far more entertaining than another minute spent among the people responsible for them. Blech, anyway, Slumdog was a good movie, so good for you Danny Boyle (and suck it up, Alex Garland, you flea-eating hack; as soon as Boyle gets away from you he lands an Oscar. How that must fill you with rage, oh the rage, Alex, the rage! Now go back to butchering Halo).

The swine formerly known as my client kicked out their contractors, so now I'm back to filling my dreary days with nonsense and profanity, puttering about the Rat Hole in a pair of over-large slippers, and searching for something bigger to strangle.

Yesterday, in a fit of despair, I indulged in an old Tom Baker era Doctor Who episode called The Invisible Enemy. This episode is most notable for its introduction of K9, but it also has some delightfully ridiculous plot points. The Doctor has been infected by an intelligent virus from outer space which struggles to take control of his mind. The Doctor would like to have a word with the virus so he has himself and Leela cloned, then, using some gadget from the TARDIS, shrinks the clones to microscopic size and has them injected into his own brain. I'd like to see them try *that* on Battlestar Galactica. When I was a kid I had an uncle who introduced me to chess, Russian literature, and Doctor Who. He always claimed Doctor Who was comedy, and it's only now that I begin to understand what he meant.

Later I indulged in a Cohiba Siglo II while watching the Flyers / Caps game. I've been making a survey of some marevas / petit coronas, and so far, despite the pedigree of pricier marques, the Diplomatico No. 4 is my favorite. It's a straightforward smoke with a perfect consistent flavor that causes my mouth to smile. I paired the cigar with some XO cognac (the latest attempt in my pursuit of the perfect liquor), just a little, no more than would fit inside a syringe since I can't afford to buy any more at the moment, lousy flea-eating swine, back-stabbing toenail-biters.

During the game intermissions I read Jack Vance's fourth Demon Princes novel The Face. So far I think I like the first one the best but they are all good (though nowhere near the perfection that is his Dying Earth collection).

After the hockey game I switched over to La Bambadoodle's speech to the Pandemonium. Whew! I thought the Academy Awards was a wank-fest! These Democrats just love the shit out of themselves, don't they? My eyes were assaulted by that grey gargoyle and that leering little troll sitting behind His Majesty -- I couldn't stop looking at those freaks, the way I can't stop staring at gruesome accidents, genetic mutations, open sores, boy bands, etc. Most of what I heard was doom doom DOOM (not my fault) doom Doom doom (and aren't I fancy?) doom DOOOOM doom (but we'll be fine). Tom Obambadil wants to bring manufacturing back to America yet wants every American to have a college education. Maybe he expects illegal immigrants to do the dirty jobs. He doesn't want to burden future generations with debt but has had the Treasury running printing presses like the Daytona 500 runs cars. He insists nobody making less than $250k will see a tax increase this year, but he just signed the SCHIP bill raising taxes on tobacco products. Do only rich people smoke in Obamaland?

Meanwhile I entertained myself with a new story idea: imagine all the members of Congress and the White House staff go on some big-nosed retreat out in some wilderness by a nice lake to talk about shit and crap. But then! There's a demonic serial killing slasher monster on the prowl there! Oh noooooo!