Drop Edge of Yonder

If you know me at all, you know I’m obsessed with Glee. And when I say “obsessed,” I mean I have it as bad as I did for Buffy and Star Trek. But just like with those shows, I know Glee isn’t perfect. Here’s my open letter bulleted list to Ryan Murphy and company regarding how they can keep this show from going completely off the rails. (No spoilers ahead; I am, in fact, completely spoiler-free.)

• Stop after season two. This show is already getting a bit meta. (You can’t use the term “Puckleberry.” That’s way too shippy for showrunners, you guys. It wasn’t worth the cheap joke you got out of it, anyway.) Besides, the actors who play Puck and Finn already look like they have wives and 2.3 kids each sitting at home. Let’s not do the whole Andrea-from-90210 thing here, okay?
• Stop with the frequent guest stars. You have a HUGE (and incredibly talented) ensemble cast, and some of the members get precious little screen time and even fewer lines. I love Kristin Chenoweth and am still smarting from the cancellation of Pushing Daisies, but her second appearance was unwarranted. Would it kill you to let T-T-T-Tina talk (Especially now that she’s lost the [unconvincing] stutter?)?
• If you can’t (or won’t) give up your guest star addiction and devote more screen time to your awesome ensemble, realize that at some point in the second season you’re going to have to take a cue from BtVS‘s “Superstar” episode and turn the whole show on its head for 44 minutes. I need to see how this club appears from the perspective of bit players such as Mike and Matt. And also Brad. I would LOVE an entire episode from Brad’s perspective; in fact, if I don’t get it, I’m probably going to have to satisfy that desire by writing my first fanfic. (Readers, you’re probably wondering to yourself, “Who is Brad?” Kill yourself! Also known as Tinkles, he’s the plucky piano player who gives the most delicious eye rolls and dubious expressions on the entire show. I mean, the man writes chorales with his countenance when he accompanies Glee members who are being especially douchey or diabolical.)
• That said, don’t EVER let Matt say a word. (Readers, you probably also don’t know who Matt is because we’ve gone through 14 episodes and the kid has never once spoken. You might call him “handsome black guy who dances with Other Asian,” or perhaps you call him “Shaft”—just as Sue Sylvester once did.) Show, you’ve gone so long without letting Matt speak that now his doing so can’t possibly live up to the audience’s expectations no matter what spectacular dialogue you give him; as such, he’s going to have to remain the affable, strong and silent type. (Alternate option: If the actor has the chops, let Matt go off on an angry, vicious, two-minute tirade when the club [inevitably] dissolves into fingerpointing during [another] crisis—and then don’t ever let him speak again.)
• I’m not the first person to say this and certainly won’t be the last, but Matthew Morrison needs to stop with the rapping and break dancing. I know he loves it, but it’s embarrassing and NEVER, EVER WORKS. (The Thong Song was absolutely wretched, and you can very clearly hear him fart when Emma falls on him. Don’t believe me? Pull out that DVD. See, even your sound people realize it’s ridiculous and aren’t cutting him any slack—even when he cuts the cheese.) Besides, if he’s capable of doing stuff like this, you can do without that bullshit.
• Please tell the promo monkeys over at Fox to stop putting Brittany’s remarks in the previews/commercials. It’s like unwrapping a birthday present and having someone yell, “It’s a Samaurai sword!” before you get all the Scotch tape off or sever the first slice of a sliver of skin. I’d rather be surprised, you know?
• I know you may find this hard to believe, but one of the big draws of the show initially was the emotion. You’ve traded much of that for cheap laughs, anvils and lampshading all over the place. You can’t rely on Rachel’s Sad!Face and Kurt’s coming out story for the heart-string tugging. (Although you can’t do away with those things, either. Besides, I will CUT YOU if Burt Hummel doesn’t appear at least once every four episodes.)
• Stop so strictly alternating in what order who writes the episodes. Going straight down the list of who wrote what episode shows you haven’t yet deviated from this order: Ryan Murphy, Brad Falchuk, Ian Brennan. This has to stop. Perhaps a more collaborative effort is in order, because the tone of each episode immediately indicates to regular viewers precisely who wrote them—and not in a good way. If you want to please your audience, stop pandering to it and instead collaborate so we get all the gooey goodness in every ep.
• Stop giving Sue so much…heart. It’s just all wrong. Sue is the one character who can be a caricature because Jane Lynch brings so much to the table. Sue doesn’t need to be a villain with vulnerability: she just needs to be completely outlandish and outrageous.

(Readers [if  you still exist], you’ll notice I didn’t explain my seven-month hiatus from blogging. I was busy, okay?)

I’m working on stuff.  I swear it!  In the meantime, here’s some stuff to tide you over.

I threw the most kick-ass, environmentally friendly baby shower in the history of Central Arkansas last Saturday.  I should get a medal or something.  Miniature photologue tomorrow, I promise.

Heroes improved dramatically in the third episode/second week.  This week’s offering, however, was not so solid.  I’ll be sticking with it for the time being, but I’m not making any promises.

I bought a new sofa.  Quentin hasn’t peed on it yet!

I’m 90% sure Chuck is the most awesome show I’ve seen in a long time.  I realize it’s not for everyone, but I do love the whole dramedy/action/espionage thing all rolled into one.  Is it weird that Chuck is the TV character with whom I most identify?

My weight loss regimen is in the proverbial shitter.  Although I’ve stuck with the aerobic activity/weight lifting/yoga, my food choices are seriously messed up.  Today I bought a loaf of cheap-ass, store brand white bread for 89 cents and had four toasted slices with butter over the course of the day (Smart Balance “butter,” at least).  I can’t really explain any of that, except that toasted white bread with butter suddenly sounded beyond decadent.  Add to that the “bad” foods I ate during/while preparing for the shower, and I totally blew it.  Time to regroup!

I’m somewhat distraught that The Sarah Connor Chronicles is on the chopping block.  Last season was interesting but not spectacular; mostly, my complaint was that it was slow to start (Is there anyone watching this show who doesn’t already know the basics of the Sarah Connor story?) and dropped a rather important story line (What the hell was up with the silhouettes at the high school?  I need closure!) — although I realize that was due in part to the strike.  But the last few episodes of season one were noticeably better — especially that incredible swimming pool scene in the finale, which was pure, undiluted awesome.  This season, however, is much more interesting and consistent (so far) as a whole, what with the additional (non-movie-based) back stories and all.  And, while I kind of hate to admit it, I think Brian Austin Green is sort of awesome — and by that I mean the actor himself and not just his character.   BAG is… pretty convincingly bad ass.  This makes TWO original 90210 actors for whom I now have a certain affinity.  Thank goodness I’ve never watched an episode of Dancing With the Stars.  (But mostly — and I know I’m not alone in this — I’m most interested in seeing Summer Glau dance again.  Her movement is completely mesmerizing.)

The following excerpt from Chelsea Handler’s opening monologue on a recent episode of her awesome show left me speechless (Although that might have been because my mouth was stuffed with the cannoli I was inhaling at the time.) and wondering if she and I were a set of creepy separated-at-birth twins*, a la Danny and Arnold in that shitty movie we all want to forget:

Chelsea: “Anyone who knows me knows I love a big breakfast buffet.  And, luckily for me, Chuy’s** full-grown cousin Paco owns an establishment called ‘Big Breakfast Buffets and Cigarettes.’  We went this past Saturday, and we went off.”

And that, dear readers, is pretty much my life.  Or my ideal life.  You know:  the one where I subsist on breakfast buffets and cigarettes instead of whole grains, raw vegetables, lean meats, yoga, cardio, and cigarettes — and still look stunning.  But then Ms. Handler turned out this gem:

Chelsea: “The only way to burn off eighteen jalapeno-Jack-cheese-stuffed cilantro waffles is to get back in bed and settle in to watch Oxygen’s Tori and Dean 44-hour marathon.  In the eleventh hour, I had a big revelation.  It was my big ‘a-ha!’ moment when I realized I, Chelsea Lately  [or, uh, Bradi Last Season], kind of like Tori Spelling.”

And I do like Tori Spelling.  Of course, I have the luxury (Or is that mercy?) of having seen maybe 10 episodes of the original 90210 rather than all 292.  (Jesus. 292?  And Firefly aired only eleven episodes?  The mind fucking boggles.)  So I don’t really know much about BH, 90210, except that I would be Andrea Zuckerman on every single “Which Character Are You?!?!?!? LOL!!!!!!!” quiz ever created.  I don’t know why I didn’t watch; I probably had high school jazz band practice on that night or something.

I do remember Ms. Spelling from Saved By the Bell, where she played a nerdy chick with a beautiful voice who stole Screech’s heart with her siren song in glee club.  (I totally kicked ass at the SBtB board game.  In college.  Kiss my ass, mother fuckers!  Everybody has to be good at something!)  And I decided then and there that Ms. Spelling was kind of awesome.

*FYI: If Chelsea and I were a set of creepy separated-at-birth identical twins, we would be 5’4″, 120 pounds, married and quickly divorced with a couple of kids, and (still) drinking shitloads of hard liquor.  So we’d pretty much be Britney.  And the last thing this world needs is three of those, so thank goodness we’re not.

**Handler’s dwarf sidekick; that is, her Ed McMahon.  Although the term “sidekick” seems really inappropriate here, but I can’t come up with anything better.

• If you’re a tweeker and have meth mouth, you are not allowed to sport a tongue ring.  There is no defensible reason to draw further attention to your terrible teeth.
• If you write a medical transcription training program and insist that the two most important elements for success are speedy typing and strong grammar skills, make sure that your materials are grammatically correct.  This is especially important to those of us who actually know proper capitalization and punctuation, because we “auto edit” as we read/type and have to go back to type text as (incorrectly) shown on screen, thus dramatically lowering our WPM average.  (FYI:  You can’t put a comma just anywhere.  There’s a whole separate set of rules for that.  See The Elements of Style for further details.)
• If you drop off your dog at Aunt Doodie’s shop for grooming and we ask what time you will pick up your pet, do not respond with, “I’m a school teacher.”  Mr. Whiteaker does not say, “I’m a judge.”  Paula Jones does not say, “I was once a celebrity boxer.”*  “I’m a school teacher” does not register on any clock we have in the shop.  “The last bell rings at 3:15, so I’ll be here right after that” will do just fine.  Besides, when you say, “I’m a school teacher,” I will smile sweetly and respond with, “I’m a dog bather.”  I will not mention that I have more degrees than a pot of boiling water and likely blew your smug ass out of the Milky Way on the NTE.  Aunt Doodie will not mention that she nets twice more than you do annually and works five hours a day.  Our parents (Who were school teachers!) reared us right.
• If you are Nathan Fillion, David Foster Wallace, or Scarlett Johannson, make plans to ravish me immediately.  Advance notice is preferred but not required.  (I’d like to shave and put some sheets not covered in pet hair on the bed first.)
• If you are responsible for the Burger King website, be ashamed.  That place is completely unnavigable.
• If you are responsible for the Burger King commercials featuring the freaky, mute mascot with the ginormous head, email me and plan for a trip to the bank.  I will send you my home address, and you can send me a check for the therapy I’ve needed because of those horrifying ads.

*Paula Jones is tiny and sweet and has the most adorable accent on the planet.  And if you mess with her, I will kick your ass.  Since, um, she proved in her boxing match that she couldn’t kick your ass herself.

There are people whom I know in an Internet Only way who must think I suffer from some sort of multiple personality disorder because of all the email addresses they have for me. A quick count shows that I have eight active email addresses. Eight.

There’s the standard personal account, the business account, the WD/MN identity account, the old blog account, the new blog account, the old hotel account, and two ancient Hotmail accounts. Except for the last two, I send and receive items from each of these accounts every single day.

This is part of my whole obsession with organizing; even the junk drawer in my kitchen has everything separated into different sections and held in little Ziplocs. I like to compartmentalize, I guess, because it’s efficient. And I especially like thinking, “I know so-and-so from XYZ, so he’ll be in the 123 account.”

But some of you people are starting to cross lines, and now you have, like, four email addresses for me. Is it making you as crazy as it’s making yours truly?

This whole compartmentalizing thing is about to blow up in my face, though, because in a few months a whole slew of you will get added to the Real Life List.

And then the Internets will explode.

I’m so excited about my upcoming trip out West where I’ll meet a gaggle of Internet Only people that I honestly can’t even think about it. Because if I think about it, I’ll start fantasizing about it. And if I start fantasizing about it, pretty soon there will be this whole thing where we’re all trapped on a deserted island together. (I have already gone through this with Aunt Doodie,* Spike,** Zach Galifianakis and Nathan Fillion. And Neil Patrick Harris better stop being such a kick-ass, adorable, singing machine unless he wants to play Robinson Crusoe to my Friday.***) If a whole bunch of you show up on my own personal Fantasy Island at the same time, it’s going to turn into Bizarro Lost. Then I’ll have to figure out which of you are Kate and Jack. And then I’ll hate the two of you, whoever the two of you may be. Which would suck, because I like you right now.

And what will happen if I’m not the same person there that I am here in cyberspace? I think I’m the same person. Well, except for the contractions; I use far fewer contractions online than I do in real life. (I think this is a WD influence, because in Arkansas we have more contractions than the rest of the country combined. And I know them all.)

But the question remains: will I be more or less in person? And while I mean “less” in the “nice and interesting” way rather than the “human worth” way, it’s still something I think about. What if my vocabulary isn’t big enough? What if I can’t understand the British or the Northeners**** because they talk too fast? What if I’m boring as all get out? What if we don’t actually watch Buffy at some point and I panic in the face of withdrawal? What if I fart in front of everybody? What if my hair frizzes out super bad and they all taunt me into singing selections from Annie?

What if all or part of that comes to pass and I can’t get by on my tits and charming accent?

God. This is just like seminary all over again.

*Not that way.
**Spike. Not James Marsters. Because he is a doofus.
***Please note that I am not the protagonist in my own fantasy. I am lazy everywhere.
****I still can’t watch The Fully Monty or Fargo without subtitles.

Here I sit, playing around on the Internet, eating Pizza Rolls, and watching Star Trek: Voyager.  TV guide tells me the episode’s special guest star is Ray Wise.  When he finally shows up on screen, I am amazed.  They did some awesome stuff in the make-up department, because he looks decades younger than when he was on TNG.
And then I realized I was thinking of Ray Walston.

I have the same problem with Little Richard and Rich Little.

This is what I did during my blogging hiatus, in no particular order:

• Kicked Rocco out
• Got fired
• Decided to write, organize and produce my own version of Food Court Musical
• Learned how to make homemade candy bars
• Signed up for unemployment
• Worked my way up to the number one and number five spots, respectively, on Facebook’s “Addicted to Angel” and “Addicted to Buffy” trivia applications
• Gave up my dream of being in the roller derby
• Realized unemployment will not keep me from being homeless…
• …Began bathing dogs for Aunt Doodie in exchange for her paying my rent
• Started taking a yoga class
• Got cable TV with a DVR
• Spent a lot of time with Aunt Doodie musing about how we would survive on a deserted island
• Started working on building a freelance career, which will theoretically enable me to stay home so I can play “Addicted to Angel/Buffy” Facebook applications and watch the DVR all day long
• Successfully completed a ten-day cleansing fast
• Entertained at my home twice in one week — a record!
• Found out my Aunt Shelley has cancer
• Realized I am not equipped to write, organize and produce my own version of Food Court Musical, so enlisted the help of my friends
• Became obsessed with sushi and ate it almost every day for two weeks
• Lost nine pounds
• Spent a lot of time daydreaming about how Nathan Fillion and I would live on a deserted island, using Aunt Doodie’s survival ideas and my “tons of free time” ideas
• Attended the Slayage Conference, where Rhonda Wilcox saw my name tag, remembered me, and asked why I never formally submitted my paper
• Made my home almost totally chemical free
• Became disgusted by sushi and vowed to never eat it again
• Found out my cousin Bailey is having another baby
• Learned how to fry an egg perfectly
• Bought a plane ticket to LA for the WD party in October
• Twisted Cindy’s arm until she agreed to visit me this summer
• Ate more sushi
• Found, loved and lost my precious Dr. Horrible
• Lost a toenail

Would you please stop moving things around in Gmail? It’s driving me nuts. One day I can’t find the Reader link in the usual drop-down menu, and the next day you’ve moved the Blogger link to an entirely different page.

I know that technology changes rapidly; I learned about that from The Sarah Connor Chronicles earlier this year and from WarGames way back in the ’80s. But I just got a DVR and a new website, and that’s plenty enough new techy stuff to keep me busy for months. So please stop moving things around!

Remember this post? Yeah, well, mere_ubu has taken it one step further. Or possibly two steps. Maybe even a brief stroll.