In Which Ring the Bells of a Big Blue Mobile Phone

Souffle Girl is a puzzle; aren't they all?
Well, I suppose that, after fifty years,
The Doctor isn't really what we'd call
A mystery. And playing off the fears
That Moffat has of Twitter was a bit
Too silly, even for my silly taste.
All told, though, I'll say Matt has still got it
(My adoration, that would be); no waste
Of time or space, is he. Redecorate
Again, though? Go ahead, as long as you
Tell me a story. As for Clara's fate
Inside a Dalek, I'm down to see that, too.
The best for me, though, was Richard E. Grant!
This won't end well, now, will it? No, it can't!

Sonnet Dare: In Which Is Considered The First Appearance Of The Master

You think the Master is a scary foe

As Jacobi and Simms have played him? Ha!

As first he did appear, when Delgado

Brought him to life, his powers had no flaw.

A glance and you were hypnotized and quick

To try to blow the Doctor up, despite

Your loyalties. This was no parlor trick.

He was that awesome; t'was pointless to fight,

And if you did, he gave you creepy toys

That made you dumb somehow, so you would bring

Them in the house, e'en though such obvious ploys

Should never work: An ugly, funny thing

That's on the mantle for a while, then, ouch!

It sinks its fangs into you on the couch!

In Which I Discover A Helpful New Tool

A TV show is good for quite a lot

Or so TV would like us all to think.

Once in a while, one truly hits the spot;

One's found that helps me as I sit and drink

Far too much tea and take up my sad task:

That NaNoWriMo project from '08,

Which I must edit down. So which, you ask,

Of all the shows, am I finding so great?

Community. Its genius is profound:

Both deeply stupid and sharply observed.

I watch it and my wheels go round and round,

Then break, refreshed, resume my work with verve,

My scornful inner snarker satisfied,

I sculpt with freedom and a kind of pride.

BONUS SONNET: Eyepatch Brigadier: In Which I Declare My Undying Love

A journey to an alternate world can

Be quite disorienting, even queer

(In that old-fashioned sense). That such a man

Exists as the great Eyepatch-Brigadier

(In Doctor Who: Inferno) leaves me stunned.

The Goatee-Spock, the Wicked Walternate

Have naught on him; he's got them all outgunned

With just a one-eyed glare. And what did cut

That fearsome Omar Little scar across

His face, and left him so bowel-chilling cold?

As mirror world chaps go, he is the boss.

Not even fair Fauxlivia could hold

A candle to him; he would blow it out

And strike her dead with just a single shout.

In Which A Beautiful Decay Is Much Admir'd

The toppling of so great a thing must make

A great and thundrous noise, to summarize

What once was said of Caesar. Now I take

This thought for one of, perhaps, lesser size,

But one whose fall we've watched, aghast, for years.

Don Draper, he whose silhouette doth plunge

Past all his noblest works; in him our fears

Of meaningless and empty toil do lunge

To grab hold of us. We are stalked, the prey

Of time and glories past, false hope; just vain

And flimsy props to hide behind. Decay

Is what we celebrate in Don; his pain

Is ours. Nor is it caution; there is naught

That we can do; in that same web we're caught.

In Which I Go To A Very Dark Place Indeed

I know, a steady diet of the stuff

Must lead to ruin, but just now and then

A giant slab of cheese proves just enough

To satisfy an appetite -- though when

I sought for Garth Marenghi's show, as per

My Queue Deformer's nod, I had no thought

Of just what I was in for. Through the blur

Of giggle-tears, I find my blood might clot,

My heart seize up, my veins clog up with sludge.

O, quelle fromage! I can't bear such delight

In larger doses, and yet I can't budge

From next my laptop; I'll be here 'till night!

At least the show is short-lived, ere I'd be

In trouble, late for work tomorrow. Hee!

Tweet

In Which I Share A Revelation I've Had About A Famous Television Program

I'm only now beginning Season Three

Of this great program we know as The Wire,

But there is something that I've come to see

That has me anxious, e'en to say on fire

To share: this show's a science program; its

Main focus, ecological. We are

Observers of a complex war of wits

Twixt carnivores and herdsmen, with Omar

An apex predator if ever were

Such given human form. I am amazed

Just watching peaceful herbivores concur

With how they're managed by this pack of crazed

Back-biting human jackals, lions, or

Police and politicians, Baltimore!

In Which My Preliminary Reaction To A Popular New Book Makes Me Queasy

TV has soaked up free time, it is true,
But I am nervous as I start to read
Clay Shirky's newest tome. I tend to view
New books with generosity but need
To ponder this. It's not that this book's bad;
His own excitement that we can do more
Than sit there now, alone and watching, sad,
Unworthy of our heritage, is, for
A moment quite contagious, but then he
Goes on to cheer how our free time could hence
Be harnessed for collective projects -- see,
That's great, until that view gets too intense
And I'm reviled should I choose not to play
As I'm expected to, a given day.


Epmire Avenue EAVB_JRYBRYMDIN

In Which I Cast A Cynical Eye On The Lost Finale

The Island was the Bardo, that is clear

And everybody died at some point, yes,

But as finales go, I cannot cheer

The Lost one overmuch, although I guess

'Twas better than the end to BSG

(But not by a whole lot). Some things were cool:

Giardia of leadership? Why not!

The toilet flap of power? And each rule

About what may not happen is just rot

Depending on each dude's management style?

OK, it's pulp, so credibility

Is mayhap not the point. We kept the dial

On ABC for six years and we saw

The products that they hawked, so where's the flaw?

In Which I Decline (Respectfully) To Let The Lost Finale Dictate My Evening Plans

I busted hump to catch up on the show,
Watched Seasons Five and Six in just two weeks.
I guess that makes a fan of me, although
That I got so behind, perhaps, well, speaks
To finding LOST good fun but not a must
(Though this year it has pulped it up quite well:
Old temples, deathless Romans, a robust
Trade in new characters, a rising swell
Of screechy violins, and, can't forget,
Schroedinger's dudes and time travl'ers galore!).
Unlike you all, whose ev'ning plans were set
When the finale date was, I'll ignore
Its being on tonight; I'm tempted by
Much rarer fare than TV can supply.

In Which I Rant A Bit About A New Character Design

Accept my testimony, bitches. What

Have you done to our Daleks, crazy boys?

They never were that scary, really, but

Now they resemble crushable desk toys!

All plastic, brightly colored, and on top

A black accordion that should collapse

Quite satisfyingly should I just stop

And smash it with my fist when I relapse

Into a moment's rage. I could have used

One of them just today when I took in

The newest Who, which pleasingly first fused

These killer robots with (this made me grin)

A '40s tank in olive drab. Hell yes!

But that's not our aesthetic now, I guess.

In Which I Divulge A Secret

I do quite well without cable TV,
As I have said before. But really, how
Is this, these days, a possibility?
Tonight shall be a good example. Wow,
Have I got hours of entertainment planned!
A new-to-me podcast, and You Tube clips
(A lot of these) shown to me by a grand
Array of wondrous friends, and then some blips
Of William Burroughs with Dave Cronenberg!
I'm overwhelmed a bit, just keeping track;
Have made a list and it's quite long. My word!
Good thing it's Mriday and I've got some slack.
And really, as my nights go it's not rare.
My TV might as well just not be there.

In Which A Tradition Is Well Continued, Or, I Like The New Doctor So Far

Ten Doctors now have come and, sadly, gone,
And the Eleventh now must fill the box.
So far I'm charmed. We''ll see as we go on.
But I must say the new companion rocks!
Matt Smith is quite the geek, impatient, stern,
A gawky, quirky bird in a bow tie;
And Karen Gillan (for whom many yearn,
As befits one who's easy on the eye),
Playing Amy Pond, is not just smart
But quite decisive, too, when once she's sussed
What's going on, to act. I'll say my heart
Is theirs to take -- and this from one who's fussed
A lot on where this show's been going. Yay!
Let Moffat take this show where'er he may.

In Which I Am Unstuck In Time

My stubbornness costs me in weird small ways,

Eschewing cable, in no hurry, I

Wait for good shows on DVD. My days

I fill just as I please, and when. They fly

Without me, these involving TV shows.

Betimes my friends get talking and provoke

My curiosity. I poke my nose

Into a serial, ongoing. Broke

(Not really, but I've travel plans), I sit

Before my laptop now, choose to immerse

Myself in one that's soon to end, a hit

With all the masses (which I find perverse).

Now I am watching Season Four of Lost

All in one day; a brain-cell holocaust!

In Which I Gently Mock A Show I Kind Of Like

As my dear Adam Christopher observed,

The Destiny is out of many things

Like socks and food that doesn't suck. Reserved,

Though, from these shortages -- and yes, this springs

Right to the fore -- are makeup and hair gel.

Absurd, of course; it's TV; there's a long

Tradition there of castaways who still

Look great week after week. Yet I've a strong

And pleasant sense that Stargate Universe

Is going to prove a show that's worth my time,

A good thing since it's gone from bad to worse,

The TV sci-fi scene this year, I find.

I have abandoned Caprica and deem

Flash Forward to have jumped the shark, unclean.

In Which I Am Fascinated And Repulsed By A Television Show

A simple concept, it would seem, our health,

But it gets weird, elusive when a trade

Develops. It gets ugly when there's stealth,

And dealings 'neath the roses, then, are made.

And it's not organ thieves, apocryphal

Or not, that trouble me just now, for I

Am watching Breaking Bad, in which a cull

Is made from Albuquerque, on the sly.

A teacher who cooks meth is funny, sure

In that high concept TV way, but then

Because a hero's motives must be pure

He's made a cancer patient so that when

He deals in poisons, sickening the mass

He's noble. Stealing health, though, has no class.

In Which I Rewind BSG For Myself

My days off, and I'm back on Battlestar

Galactica, to see it all again;

A fun and strange experience so far,

As I know what nobody knew back then,

Not even Moore. Of course I play the game

Of "Spot The Cylon" in 'most ev'ry scene.

So many diff'rent flavors do proclaim

Themselves as plots unfold. This is no mean

Or paltry feat. The Final Five are there

Before us almost from the start -- well, some.

I'm going to scream when all the rest do stare

Back at me from my monitor. I've come

To like the show more deeply as repeats.

I'm just on Season One. Lo, lots more treats.

In Which I Finally Actually Watch Fringe And Find Much To Like

Weird sci-fi stuff, I'll always give a chance,

So Fringe has long been on my growing list

Of shows that may deserve more than a glance.

I've all but the first season's ending twist

(Which I think I see coming) 'neath my belt,

And have to say that, while the jokes are stale,

The casting makes my cynic's heart just melt

A bit. John Noble's perfect, and the pale

And pensive Anna Torv stands up quite well

To all his antics. But really, the lab

Is why I keep on watching. It's just swell!

Rube-Goldberg analog tech is a fab

Kate-baiting tactic, e'en without a cow.

I'm queueing up the first finale now!

In Which I Discover An Unpleasant Allergy

The Devil's Fishbowl it has oft been called,
Most mem'rably by Robyn Hitchcock. I
Am always slightly shocked and quite appalled
To come to visit folks only to spy
A television that is never dark,
Not even during meals or talk or games.
It shuts me down to see it; harsh and stark
Alienation grips me. Call it names,
The Glass Teat or the Boob Tube, still it has
A death-grip on the consciousness of those
Who worship at its altar. I'm a spaz
When seeing it, I wrinkle up my nose
And mental nausea kicks in. And yet,
I feel like I'm the jerk because I fret.

In Which Mystery Science Theater 3000 Reaches The Legal Drinking Age

I'm told that twenty-one short years ago
Was MST3K's debut. I'm stunned!
This may well be my all-time fav'rite show.
Bad movies, mostly sci-fi, mocked and punned
By Joel, then Mike, and wondrous robots three,
Tom Servo, Gypsy, Crow (and Cambot, too
Of course, so kind of four). That once TV
Held wonders such as this can see me through
A dismal survey of much modern fare:
Imagining what these guys would have said
While watching the new Indy Jones, I'd bear
Much worse, I like to think. Still in my head,
I send a Bannergram to Joel and Trace
And Josh and all the Best Brains guys. My face!