A healthy dose of Monkees, a smattering of curious images, and the occasional rusty clank of fandoms colliding.
Just spent waaaay too long on my Disneybound-style Jack Sparrow outfit.
An intense Nez is an unsettlingly sexy Nez.
Yes, I know it was a few days ago now but I’m still recovering from the trauma. My kids are too. They found the mawkishness so excruciating they had to hide behind the sofa. Just why was this year’s Doctor Who Christmas Special so painfully bad? The easy answer is to blame Steven Moffat. He, […]“The whole Doctor Who enterprise has long since grown so delighted with its own charm, wit and quirkiness that it has abandoned all its self-critical faculties. Pampered, cherished and indulged by the BBC, virtually guaranteed decent ratings, Doctor Who now thinks it’s so big and clever it has no need to follow the conventional rules of dramatic entertainment like, say, having a half-way comprehensible plot or coherent characters or a narrative structure. Instead it has become a tedious cycle of mild peril interspersed with escapist whimsy and lots and lots of immensely-pleased-with-themselves in-jokes”
So last night we went to a party and made papercraft ornaments. I decided to Pimp My Dalek.
Anyone who says they can get through the Sarah McLachlan Jessie/Emily scene in Toy Story 2 without bawling their eyes out is a DAMNED DIRTY LIAR.
Those movies destroy me. That scene still gets me, but I was totally unprepared for one even WORSE in Toy Story 3. I openly wept in the theater.
(I was not alone in that regard.)
We played that at my theater. We’re right near a college, so we had a TON of frat bros walking out of the theater biting the insides of their cheeks and trying *really hard* not to look like they just cried.