I know it’s pretty and

I know it’s pretty and all, and it does include things like Thanksgiving, my wife’s birthday, and the Cocktail Party, but I really don’t like fall all that much. And given how I seem to always get a moderate-to-severe case of the blahs at this time of year, I could probably convince someone that fall didn’t like me all that much either. If they weren’t paying very close attention, anyway.

Alasdair and I saw Ballistic (I refuse to compound the misrepresentation found in the fuller, colon-laden title) tonight, and it was, well, tremendously bad. Deliciously bad, perhaps, but it left a somewhat sour aftertaste. Or maybe the metaphor I’m reaching for — stretching, you might say, and I would not raise a cry in protest — involves more mildew. It did give Al and I quite a bit of befuddled and nonplussed dinner conversation afterwards, but other than that, Al is quite correct: the most satisfying thing about the movie was that when it ended, one could go and urinate. Not recommended, unless perhaps you are Chris Blizzard, in which case it will only help improve your opinion of Reindeer Games.

Phil and I are going to work together on recovery, which really means that for the next few days we are going to run a race in parallel lanes, trying to avoid tripping each other. On Friday, we will merge into one lane, discover that one of us is skiing and the other pole-vaulting, and scramble to make sense of what we’ve done. Or, perhaps, it might all work out, but given how much utter shite I wrote and then removed from my editor today, I’m allowed to be a bit code-grumpy. So there.

Tomorrow is the season premiere, so of course Tyla has been brushing up on her lore. A scholarly (?) journal devoted to Buffy the Vampire Slayer was an unexpected find, but I must confess that I, too, am interested to learn more about how “as Spike comes closer and closer to the Scoobies he proves himself an able ironicist“. No, really. (I can feel the power of Alasdair’s eyes rolling as I type this very paragraph.)

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