Emily has spoken in a previous post about our love of Battlestar Galactica. When BSG was last running new episodes this past summer, we got hooked. As the last episode of season 4.0 was playing, we talked about how weird it was that when season 4.5 aired, X would be 3 months old.
X will be three months old this Thursday, and BSG is back. And I know so many people won't have gotten to see it for so many reasons, so I won't go into plot points and specifics, but I couldn't let this evening pass without at least screaming quietly on the internet about how frakking amazing the start of the second half of season four is, and how I can't comprehend how they are going to wrap up the entire show in nine more episodes.
Let me say again, FRAKKING amazing!
Showing posts with label tv. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tv. Show all posts
Friday, January 16, 2009
Thursday, July 3, 2008
He can dance if he wants to.
It's official. Willa's a he.
And he likes kicking himself in the head. My mother suggested the Simpson Gene. Our donor had hair, though.
At 22 weeks, he weighed 1 pound, 2 ounces. And his legs were measuring two weeks ahead of date. Ha!
While we could keep calling him Willa, we've started calling him by his outside name, and it would be nice to be consistent. So, for Intarwebs purposes, he'll be called X.
No, we won't tell you what it stands for. But, well, you know us. Guess.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Basketball
We hate the Lakers.
There are a lot of reasons for this. Their terrible color combination. That they were so mean to the Sixers in that first finals we ever watched. Because no group of professional athletes should have such a poor free-throw percentage. That they seem so culturally and athletically dominant. (I also hate the Cowboys. If I managed to care about baseball, I might even dislike the Yankees, though I'm not sure of that, entirely.) Anyway. We hate the Lakers. A lot.
I started this. I saw it was the conference finals, and somehow now we've got five hours of ball a night on the TiVo, which is seriously screwing with my three-week X-Files backlog. (It's season 6. That is, it's the shippiest season until season 7. And then season 8, which wins the shippy awards because, you know, they have a baby.) I just had to watch three whole episodes on fast forward (stopping only for "Dear Diary, today my heart leapt" and "I lack your feminine wiles" and assorted other goodness) and delete this week's Top Chef (which reruns three times in the next 24 hours, so I'm not anxious) in order to see the Lakers not win tonight. WHICH WILL HAPPEN. BECAUSE WE HATE THE LAKERS.
Anyway, it's been a wonderful week of basketball. Every evening, my wife will come over to the couch, and we'll sit curled up under a blanket, her leaning against me, both of us holding onto Willa, who kicks along happily. Kate feels her all the time; I've felt her, but I get distracted by Kate's pulse, which is close to the surface along her belly. I explain to Willa what I know about basketball, all of which was learned from watching the game. I'm still not certain what the rules are for various fouls, in particular why it's not a foul every time someone gets shoved around. (I think I came up with a good moral lesson in the structure of fouls: "Every time you foul somebody, it's wrong. But sometimes, you do it anyway, because it'll make something else better. Still, you have to take your punishment, because it's still a wrong thing.") We've decided we need to actually know the rules of the game before she comes out, so this time next year, when she's sitting on my lap for real, I can explain it to her. And she'll sit there, in her tiny little New York Liberty shirt, and learn to hate the Lakers. Because, really, she should.
There are a lot of reasons for this. Their terrible color combination. That they were so mean to the Sixers in that first finals we ever watched. Because no group of professional athletes should have such a poor free-throw percentage. That they seem so culturally and athletically dominant. (I also hate the Cowboys. If I managed to care about baseball, I might even dislike the Yankees, though I'm not sure of that, entirely.) Anyway. We hate the Lakers. A lot.
I started this. I saw it was the conference finals, and somehow now we've got five hours of ball a night on the TiVo, which is seriously screwing with my three-week X-Files backlog. (It's season 6. That is, it's the shippiest season until season 7. And then season 8, which wins the shippy awards because, you know, they have a baby.) I just had to watch three whole episodes on fast forward (stopping only for "Dear Diary, today my heart leapt" and "I lack your feminine wiles" and assorted other goodness) and delete this week's Top Chef (which reruns three times in the next 24 hours, so I'm not anxious) in order to see the Lakers not win tonight. WHICH WILL HAPPEN. BECAUSE WE HATE THE LAKERS.
Anyway, it's been a wonderful week of basketball. Every evening, my wife will come over to the couch, and we'll sit curled up under a blanket, her leaning against me, both of us holding onto Willa, who kicks along happily. Kate feels her all the time; I've felt her, but I get distracted by Kate's pulse, which is close to the surface along her belly. I explain to Willa what I know about basketball, all of which was learned from watching the game. I'm still not certain what the rules are for various fouls, in particular why it's not a foul every time someone gets shoved around. (I think I came up with a good moral lesson in the structure of fouls: "Every time you foul somebody, it's wrong. But sometimes, you do it anyway, because it'll make something else better. Still, you have to take your punishment, because it's still a wrong thing.") We've decided we need to actually know the rules of the game before she comes out, so this time next year, when she's sitting on my lap for real, I can explain it to her. And she'll sit there, in her tiny little New York Liberty shirt, and learn to hate the Lakers. Because, really, she should.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
In Which The Commune Has A New Favorite TV Show
Why, oh why, fuck why did I not start watching Battlestar Galactica until now? Holy shit. HOLY SHIT. People, it's good. So good. It's actually better than Buffy, and that is something.
Plus, BSG and The X-Files share so many elements that it's blowing my mind. Like hot hot hot women named Starbuck? Badass redheads with a cancer problem? Major male characters who see ghosts, and later are set up as Jesus figures? A major pairing full of not necessarily resolved sexual tension but a lot of cuddly goodness? Teh Evils stealing people's ovaries? Half-human babies as the key to everything? Clones with superpowers? So much awesome there is in this show, people.
So we've watched the entirety of the first three seasons in the past week. As I write this, we are watching Friday's episode. We're going to have to start actually waiting a week between episodes. We may die.
So, anyway. Anyone want to talk about BSG? Please?
Also, I hereby publicly tag the wife to write about our weekend shopping.
Plus, BSG and The X-Files share so many elements that it's blowing my mind. Like hot hot hot women named Starbuck? Badass redheads with a cancer problem? Major male characters who see ghosts, and later are set up as Jesus figures? A major pairing full of not necessarily resolved sexual tension but a lot of cuddly goodness? Teh Evils stealing people's ovaries? Half-human babies as the key to everything? Clones with superpowers? So much awesome there is in this show, people.
So we've watched the entirety of the first three seasons in the past week. As I write this, we are watching Friday's episode. We're going to have to start actually waiting a week between episodes. We may die.
So, anyway. Anyone want to talk about BSG? Please?
Also, I hereby publicly tag the wife to write about our weekend shopping.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
When TV speaks the Truth
As heard last night on How I Met Your Mother (which is basically one of two sitcoms I actually like, the other being Scrubs, and HIMYM is better now than Scrubs is) last night:
Me (to Kate): Hey, we have one of those! And our parents signed it, too!
Every so often, Kate and I find ourselves talking about this time last year, when we were six week from our wedding. Every day it was an insane jumble of callingtherestaurantcallingtheloftcallingtheseamstresscallingourmothers that never seemed to end. We both have dreams, every now and then, that we're having another wedding, and we wake up and clutch each others hands. "I dreamt we were getting married again," we say. "Oh, God, let's never do that. Never ever."
But the wedding itself? Perfect, for the value of perfect that includes needing insane stories to tell about it. And now, look at us, eleven months later, settled and happy with a baby on the way. God damn, we're conventional. And we never have to have another wedding again.
More wedding photos here if you want them.
Ted (to Barney): Dude, do not pretend you're not a guy who keeps a list of all the girls he's slept with.
Marshall: I have one. It's called my marriage license. (He and Lily high-five.)
Me (to Kate): Hey, we have one of those! And our parents signed it, too!
Every so often, Kate and I find ourselves talking about this time last year, when we were six week from our wedding. Every day it was an insane jumble of callingtherestaurantcallingtheloftcallingtheseamstresscallingourmothers that never seemed to end. We both have dreams, every now and then, that we're having another wedding, and we wake up and clutch each others hands. "I dreamt we were getting married again," we say. "Oh, God, let's never do that. Never ever."
But the wedding itself? Perfect, for the value of perfect that includes needing insane stories to tell about it. And now, look at us, eleven months later, settled and happy with a baby on the way. God damn, we're conventional. And we never have to have another wedding again.
More wedding photos here if you want them.
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