Monday, June 22, 2020
Go Away, Little Boy
My teenaged son and I watched a TV broadcast of the animated film, Mulan, several years after it came out. I was looking forward to hearing the songs sung by the amazing Lea Salonga and was surprised by the quality of the male singer on I'll Make a Man Out of You. (There was also the humorous bonus of seeing my son shudder violently as the final note was sung because, he said, "No adult human male should be able to sing that high.") I looked up the movie online and was shocked to find out that the adult human male in question was Donny Osmond. Donny Osmond!? I remembered a girly, squeaky-voiced (like the sound an old doorknob makes) boy by that name with a lot of hair and a huge smile. Could this possibly be the same person? He fell off my radar as he was trying to reinvent himself in order to stay on our collective radar. Well, good for him, I thought. He's certainly come a long way. And, like the similar shock of finding out that sensitive, geeky, whispery-voiced Robby Benson was behind the Beast in the animated version of Beauty and the Beast a few years earlier, it wore off and I gave it no further thought.
That is until The Pandemic hit and Andrew Lloyd Webber generously decided to grace us with free viewings of his most famous musicals, some of which I had never seen. I missed the first show of the series and they apparently ran out of options before the lockdown ended, so I was able to watch the second airing of 1998's Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat starring - surprise (to me, anyway) - Donny Osmond! Forgetting his impressive turn in Mulan - it was also over 20 years ago, after all - I had low expectations going in and the actual story in the Bible is far more dramatic than the show, itself. But his tour-de-force number, Close Every Door, was absolutely stunning. I didn't actually find the song itself very impressive but the performance was everything. I couldn't get it out of my head for weeks on end. (It neatly replaced the earlier, self-propelled earworm of Phantom of the Opera which literally declares that he is there, inside my mind. And he does not leave when asked.) And it brought with it a host of old Osmond songs that I hadn't heard in years, including the incredibly annoying Go Away, Little Girl. (You were wondering when I was getting around to that, weren't you?) What a message. The singer is a man (or a squeaky-voiced boy, as the case may be) in a committed relationship, who is tempted by another woman. So, what does he do? Exercise self-control? No. Try to forget about her? Nope. He tells the other woman to leave, even though she bears no fault in this scenario. And then he sings about it, as if this were some sort of romantic notion with which we would empathize. Really? This is clearly his problem, not hers. Get a grip, buddy. Take some responsibility. Why doesn't *he* go away? Be a man! Oops, wrong song.
'night.
Wednesday, January 09, 2019
I guess the Doctor Who infection has been cured
I don't know if this means I am no longer a proper Whovian but I have not enjoyed watching Doctors Twelve *or* Thirteen. Twelve started off so nasty - not curmudgeonly, which would have suited him, but actually mean-spirited. Calling humans pudding-for-brains? Really? So unkind. And he only warmed up somewhat. When he did lighten up, it seemed forced. And what about his accent? There were two Scottish actors who played previous incarnations of the Doctor and they were both forced to use an English accent for the sake of continuity. Twelve not only remained Scottish but *called* himself Scottish. That makes no sense in the Whoverse. I doubt that there's a Scotland on Gallifrey. (Although I recall in Eleven's Vincent Van Gogh episode, the actor who played the Dutch painter was inappropriately and unapologetically Scottish and the character commented that he appreciated Amy's proper speech - of course, Amy also being played by a Scot.) Nine cheekily played off his Northern English accent by defensively saying, "Lots of planets have a north!" But I guess now that the rules are being broken left and right and Time Lords can now have as many lives as they want, they can also be from anywhere they want - so far only in the area of Great Britain but who knows? Thirteen is played by a woman who doesn't try to hide her Yorkshire accent. Her character hasn't been mean. It hasn't really been much of anything other than preachy. Her audience has been lectured on protecting the environment, gender equality and politics, among other topics. What happened to fun? What happened to escapism? I am actually somewhat relieved, if not pleased, that there will be no episodes this year until Christmas/New Year's, and am almost disappointed that Thirteen will be in the next series. Maybe Fourteen will be introduced at Christmas and that's why there are no episodes this year. But they have to get rid of the preachy writer if the show is going to get back on track.
'night.
Monday, February 10, 2014
Hello. My name is Ruby. I am a grammar nazi.
I read a lovely news story today and then, at the very end, I saw it. "The kidnapper later turned herself into police." How? With a magic wand?
I can't help myself. Misspellings, poor grammar and incorrect phraseology all stop me in my tracks. Random commenters are one thing but actual authors, journalists, advertisers and bloggers should know better and care more. I saw an ad for wooden wedding signs which proudly proclaimed that their product would be perfect for a "vowel renewal". Did part of our alphabet go rogue and has now returned to the fold? Cause for celebration, indeed.
And then there are the parts of speech that no one cares enough about to find the reason they don't make sense. It's because they're used incorrectly. The last time I said, "for all intents and purposes," I remembered reading something about people who say, "for all intensive purposes." What does that even mean? More importantly, what do those people mean when they say it? Having a purpose is important but those all-intensive ones could be perilous. Unless, of course, not all of our vowels have been renewed, in which case your doom would have to be spelled in Hebrew or Cyrillic. Or Welsh.
These and other, equally pointless questions will likely never be answered. I would wonder what was wrong with me but Grammarly​ says I'm perfectly normal. I believe them.
'night.
'night.
Monday, June 03, 2013
...and looking forward to Doctor Number Twelve
So, we've nearly reached the end of Eleven's run. The boy's had enough. Oddly, I'm ok with that. I came to the party after Nine had long since gone and Ten had been recently replaced, so Eleven should logically be the one I felt most attached to. Somehow that isn't the case at all.
There have since been special episodes reflecting back on the early Doctors and I feel more connected, now. I've also come to the conclusion that nostalgia plays a huge role in one's affection for these early Doctors. I think back on my own childhood with affection towards The Monkees, Batman, Bugs Bunny, Star Trek, Rocky and Bullwinkle, Lost in Space. When I tried to share some of that with my own children, they didn't get it. They couldn't look past the outdated silliness, and I think that's my problem with the first generation of Doctors. Their episodes were certainly no more cheesy than the scifi I watched as a child, but I didn't watch them then. The affection factor is missing and, try as I might, I just can't get into the original go-round.
That said, I watched the episodes with Christopher Eccleston's Doctor Number Nine with no expectations and found him to be tough, funny and ingenious. David Tennant's Number Ten was charming, brilliant, easily flustered and usually just as easily able to pull himself together and save the day. Matt Smith's Number Eleven never really struck me as entirely competent. He was someone who hadn't quite come into his own. He certainly had his moments but for the most part, he seemed goofy and haphazard - less like 900 years old and more like 9, a hero who stumbled onto more resolutions than he actually reasoned out. That seeming lack of maturity and intelligence didn't inspire the same kind of confidence in me that the others did - even some of the old, corny ones.
Many enjoyed this Doctor's run and found him to be creative and heroic. Sorry, Matt, I wish you well and look forward to the next incarnation.
'night.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Why I disliked the Doctor Who Series 4-ending "Special"
I am now infected. I've decided that is what it is - an insidious infection. Random lines from the show now infiltrate my daily thoughts and conversation. I suspect that the infiltration goes deeper than that of other shows, movie lines, commercial taglines, prose and song lyrics but I could be wrong. Any stream of consciousness seems to include some reference to Doctor Who somewhere along the line. But that's not what is annoying me at the moment.
What is annoying to me is the Tenth Doctor's final episode. I hated The End of Time. Absolutely hated it, even seeing it for the first time more than two years after its original broadcast. There had been so much ominous foreshadowing, such a sense of foreboding and impending doom that, although I was sad to see this incarnation end, I was morbidly excited to see how it played out. I felt entirely let down because the end was so cruelly anti-climactic and didn't even attempt to live up to its promise. There were mitigating factors, certainly - it had suspense, a scenery-chomping Timothy Dalton, John Simm in a dress - always lovely - an absolutely perfect performance by Bernard Cribbins, and cameo appearances by almost everyone Number Ten ever cared about. Not to mention my personal favorite, a ridiculous scene in which the Doctor is ostensibly being propelled to safety while tied to a wheelchair, shouting, "No, no, no! Not the stairs!" which put me in mind of a not-at-all-humorous scene from the movie Conspiracy Theory. I suppose that doesn't explain why it would be my favorite. It has more to do with the following scene of the movie where Mel Gibson tells Julia Roberts that he escaped from the bad guy by stabbing him with the wheelchair. It isn't often that you get an opportunity to say that. And I so wanted the Doctor to stab the Master with the wheelchair. Now that I think about it, that doesn't necessarily explain it, either. But all this pales in the face of an hour of listening to the Doctor whine about not wanting to die. (Don't *even* get me started on Donna's fireproof brain...)
He knows he's about to die and is unhappy about it. That's perfectly valid and completely understandable. But really, an hour of this? "I don't want to die. I thought I'd be better off without a companion but I was wrong. I'm miserable. Maybe Time Lords live too long. Maybe they should die. But I don't want to die. It's not fair!" Good heavens, we get it! So, after deciding that thoroughly depressing the entire viewing audience wasn't enough, the Doctor goes on a farewell tour, depressing everyone he's ever known except one that already looked suicidal upon the Doctor's arrival and one other. He couldn't really say goodbye to her for reasons fans will understand, so he just mopes pathetically at her. And then, after all that misery, his very last line at the point of death is a tearful, "But I don't want to go." Are you kidding me?? I stared at the screen, cringing at the prolonged agony, thinking, Please die, already. I'll help you. Just go. He really should have died an episode earlier - or maybe even an entire storyline sooner.
My friend, still grieving the departure of Number Ten well into the tenure of Number
Eleven, had no reply to my rant (which was, at the time, abbreviated out of respect for her feelings). And so, dear reader, I rant to you. And I apologize for...anything I may need to apologize for. I'm sorry. So very, very sorry.
'night.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Glass (for Skip)
Looking through a window
apart from the world
watching from the shadow
of the wings of Him
in whom is no shadow
His eyes run to and fro, yet
He never turns away
We stand behind glass
No barrier to Him
Who shares glimpses
of what is beyond
Now we see through a glass
then we shall see face to face
where the streets are made
of gold as pure as glass
Friday, April 20, 2012
In spite of everything, I am not Kathy Bates
For years, I have been mistaken for the actress, Kathy Bates. This is not something I'm making up for the sake of the blog. I once used this picture of her in my profile to test my friends' reactions. Almost no one noticed. This is a serious problem that needs to be addressed, both for my sake and for hers. And, quite possibly, that of the entire human race.
On some levels, I can understand the confusion. After all, we have a ridiculous amount of common ground. First and foremost, we are both alive. We could easily be confused with one another on that basis alone. Beyond that, as if going beyond that were even necessary, we are both human. We are both female, and we have both viewed the sun, moon and stars from exactly the same vantage point in the universe. And it doesn't stop there. We have each experienced weather as well as the occasional sunburn. We both eat and drink, sleep and speak. Usually not all at once. We both live in coastal states with roughly the same shape, although California's has obviously been stretched and sags a bit after having given birth to one too many American television shows. That distinction now rests with British Columbia, Canada. (Why are almost all the actors on American tv either Canadian or Australian? Everyone talks funny these days and believe me, I know. No one I know talks funnier than I do, because I sound weird even to myself.) But that is neither here nor there. Well, I'm pretty sure it's not here. Anyway, we have both received some level of education and, as a consequence, can both read and write. Now, I don't know Miss Bates and have never personally seen her read or write, and she may well have people in her employ who do those things for her. I am going out on a limb to state that she can read and write, due to my affinity with the woman. The laundry list of our similarities is practically endless, unlike my attention span. So, onwards.
I am not Kathy Bates. I have nothing against her. How could I? I don't even know her. The sole piece of information I have, albeit a subjective one, is that she's a fine actress. But we could quite possibly unravel the very fabric of reality if we ever met. Although I would hope that the fabric of reality is made of sturdier stuff than that. Advertising would have us believe that cotton is the fabric of our lives. It's soft and cuddly and not very durable. I like to think that the fabric of reality is more like chain mail. Chain mail lasts forever and refuses to disappear, whether it be in the form of armor or letters promising miracles if you perpetuate the message and dire consequences if you don't. Be that as it may, I do empathize with the woman, because I know a little of what it's like to have people come up to you with preconceived notions of who you are and want something from you that you may or may not be able or willing to provide. Besides, in all honesty and the words of Keith Urban, "Who wouldn't want to be me?" I am admittedly pretty fabulous, depending on my mood, and Miss Bates could certainly do worse.
At the risk of further redundancy, I reiterate - I am not Kathy Bates. I have never tried to pass myself off as Miss Bates or trade on our similarities in any way. I would advise that she avoid this area of the U.S., though, unless she is prepared to be frequently mistaken for me. And, of course, risk compromising the integrity of the fabric of reality. If she does decide the risk would be worth it in order to spend time with someone besides her family who would accept her for who she is (whoever she is), her people are welcome to call my people and chat like the people that they are. Which sounds a bit scary, actually.
'night.
Friday, June 17, 2011
2012 - Nothing to worry about
'night.
Friday, December 17, 2010
What?
Common French phrase as mangled by a native Chinese speaker: "Mexi-bugoo". When I didn't understand him, he said, "Guess you don't speak French, huh." When I finally figured it out, I have to say I'm proud not to have laughed. Yeah, *my* skills are definitely the problem here.
Observation of the day: apparently, saying, "Ich spreche nicht Deutche," very slowly means, "I don't speak German, but please feel free to go full speed ahead, anyway."
'night.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Watch your language!
A friend was carrying on about a doctor named Ptak and all I could think was, isn't that a bad word in Klingon?
'night.
