I don’t want to like ABC’s Time After Time. I really don’t. I know where the story’s going (jump to a different era in every episode as H.G. pursues the dastardly Jack The Ripper in order to save lives and stave off some future calamity), but I keep coming back to it. As my friend Mark said, “I know you. It’s got a dark haired Brit with a hairy chest and a beard.”
Regrettably, I really am that shallow. But to be perfectly honest, I couldn’t make it all the way through the most recent episode in one sitting. It was so…predictable…that halfway through I had to turn it off and return to it this evening.
Because who doesn’t like a fuzzy-faced Aussie in pseudo-cowboy drag? Unf.
Such a tease.
Or is that “Play with his balls…in your mouth?”
Are you watching The Expanse on SyFy? If you’re a fan of “hard” sci-fi and you aren’t, you probably should be. To me it feels a lot like the network’s own Battlestar Galactica, and like BSG, Season One got off to a slow start. There’s a lot of universe-building going on, and if you’re unfamiliar with the source material like I was, it takes some time to get up to speed as characters are introduced and storylines established. Season Two, however, has really taken off and it’s become one of my “must not miss” shows this year.
And if that weren’t enough, hunky Wes Chatham gets plenty of screen time.
Yeah, yeah…I know the boxing shots aren’t from this particular show, but don’t hate.
I probably shouldn’t have watched one of my all-time favorite thrillers, The Hunt for Red October, before going to bed last night, but Alec Baldwin was undoubtedly at the height of his yumminess when the film came out in 1990 and I just simply couldn’t surf past. (Since Alec and I are the same age—something I hadn’t realized until I just double-checked the release date—I suppose I was at the height of my yumminess at the same time too. Sigh.)
Oh Alec…that chest hair [swoon]!
Sorry. I got distracted. Anyhow…
With our Executive branch of government currently in—to put it politely, total disarray—led by an imbecile who thinks he knows everything and refuses to listen to anyone or anything other than the voices in his own head, what’s to prevent the nightmare scenario postulated in the film (Russians parking a submarine off the eastern coast of the United States and nuking DC) from actually happening? Even if the military/CIA/FBI are aware of it and attempt to brief Cheetolini, who’s to say he won’t dismiss it as “fake news”—especially considering his tongue is so far up Putin’s ass they’re French kissing? Launch a nuke on DC and you’ve taken out the Federal Government, rendering any sort of immediate, coordinated response impossible. What would prevent Russian troops from then simply walking onto US soil and taking over à la Red Dawn?
I would hope that the government has a plan in place in the event of such a calamity, but who knows? This is the sort of shit that keeps me awake at 4 am.
Prompted by this post at My New Plaid Pants…
Fuck that. Let’s talk about Justin Theroux’s schlong.
It’s a very fresh retelling of the Oz stories, and I’m surprised I’m enjoying it as much as I am.
Of course the fact that Oliver Jackson Cohen (the “scarecrow”) seems to have a clause written into his contract that he must appear shirtless in every episode for a certain length of time has nothing to do with it.
Not that I’m complaining…
Oh Sam. Dat ‘stache…