Ludicrous, I say
The leafing season has arrived, and the wrathful gales that harbinger darkness have decisively ungreened all of Shmooldom. Which is acceptable — less cover for the vermin, less foliage to obscure the maneuverings of the unburrowed. Due to the infiltration of my sanctum shmoolum by the Small Man (more on that at a later date; the drama remains unplayed, the game yet afoot) I am forced to spend more time above ground. So, so much the better that the land be laid bare. Infiltrators, keep your distance: in this low-angled light, I see every twitch in sharp relief.
As always, this blustery orange season has brought with it profound changes in the Man. Every year, right about this time, he augments his Big Box image-rituals: less we see of the pajama-clad figures thwacking and pursuing the white orb while running in circles across the great lawn; and more we see of the dark and ugly creatures of the viscera-squishing and gore-spritzing variety.
The Woman, as usual, will have nothing to do with this. She and Small Man take in their surgical dramaturgy in the other room.
Most often, the Man's macabre entertainments involve the befanged and beclawed nibbling on the soft and the stupid. Naturally, I approve, though I don't quite see how this provides any kind of escape from the realities of the world just beyond the fortress door. But every so often, the Man conjures up a true masterpiece on the Big Box — a heroic epic that makes one truly appreciate the power of the theatric arts. These are rare, but oh so welcome.
But then, inevitably, along comes some outrageous pile of propagandistic rubbish that so offends one's sensibilities as to make one want to claw the face off the Big Box itself. I mean, the unmitigated gall of the special interests behind this crap! Who would believe such nonsense?! It is hardly entertainment — rather, a transparently obvious and gratuitous attempt to instill paranoia and panic by invoking the spectre of an empty threat, a chimerical crisis, a phantom menace (to coin a term).
And then, adding insult to injury, not one cat appears in the whole damned travesty.
Idiotic. Preposterous. Ludicrous. Who does this Hatchcock think he is?
As always, this blustery orange season has brought with it profound changes in the Man. Every year, right about this time, he augments his Big Box image-rituals: less we see of the pajama-clad figures thwacking and pursuing the white orb while running in circles across the great lawn; and more we see of the dark and ugly creatures of the viscera-squishing and gore-spritzing variety.
The Woman, as usual, will have nothing to do with this. She and Small Man take in their surgical dramaturgy in the other room.
Most often, the Man's macabre entertainments involve the befanged and beclawed nibbling on the soft and the stupid. Naturally, I approve, though I don't quite see how this provides any kind of escape from the realities of the world just beyond the fortress door. But every so often, the Man conjures up a true masterpiece on the Big Box — a heroic epic that makes one truly appreciate the power of the theatric arts. These are rare, but oh so welcome.
But then, inevitably, along comes some outrageous pile of propagandistic rubbish that so offends one's sensibilities as to make one want to claw the face off the Big Box itself. I mean, the unmitigated gall of the special interests behind this crap! Who would believe such nonsense?! It is hardly entertainment — rather, a transparently obvious and gratuitous attempt to instill paranoia and panic by invoking the spectre of an empty threat, a chimerical crisis, a phantom menace (to coin a term).
And then, adding insult to injury, not one cat appears in the whole damned travesty.
Idiotic. Preposterous. Ludicrous. Who does this Hatchcock think he is?
so sayeth Shmool on Friday, October 19, 2007
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