You should know I'm still loopy from some store-brand Nyquil knockoff. Expect no logic here, or coherence, or any discernable point. I'm just tapping away and giddy, riding the buzz.
We--and by "we" I mean central Iowa in general, but specifically myself and my cats, forced to endure my presence pretty much constantly yesterday--got hit by an ice storm yesterday, which meant it was well nigh (Well Nigh The Science Guy! Coming soon to a PBS station near you!) impossible to travel yesterday, which meant hanging out and watching movies, which renders the notion of time meaningless.
So shortly after seven, while enduring the nightmare of The Rockettes' Christmas Whoop-De-Doo (not the actual title, of course, but like I'm going to bother looking it up), I decide my day is pretty well shot, might as well take the aforementioned Nyquil-like product, read for awhile (a book on Sidney Lumet--Jeebus, what a geek!), then hit the road to dreamland.
Dreamland arrives sooner than expected, so quickly I don't even shut off the TV. I dream of bad SNL reruns and David Caruso's sunglasses and hastily-assembled hosts of infomercials. Somewhere in my sleep (or lightly drug-fueled haze), I must be flipping channels.
I awake at four or five AM, and realize my local CW affiliate shows reruns of the UPN sitcom Half And Half, which I've never even heard of, but which stars Rachel True. She, of course, is one of the babes from The Craft, and in that movie she's hotter than Neve Campbell but not as hot as Fairuza Balk.
Why do I know this? Come on! Who the hell was The Craft made for? Teenage girls? No way, my friend. What with it's quartet of hot babes in Goth schoolgirl outfits, it was clearly made for pathetic lonely guys everywhere, who'd obsessively watch it every time it shows up on cable, which for a time was every five minutes or so.
I go back to sleep, but upon waking find myself inexplicably drawn to the IMDb, reading the entries on Rachel True and Fairuza Balk. About Faiuza, we learn she writes poetry, loves to sing and her favorite authors include William Burroughs, James Joyce and Oscar Wilde.
Poetry and singing are huge signifiers right there, but Burroughs, Joyce and Wilde? This chick is seriously fucked up. So how come I'm not dating her?
