Confession: I couldn't watch SVU because of a social opportunity. Let's hope they rerun it 500 times after the Season Finale in two weeks. I live in the dark ages--too lazy to stand in line to get DVR. Celebration: To prepare myself for Gale Harold's bedazzlement on DH this Sunday, I'm having a Gale-athon, which began today with Deadwood: Season 3. From the first $&#*&$, I remember why I stopped watching. I can't understand a thing (which usually means it's brilliant). Deadwood reminds me a little of indies in the 1990s where everyone swore all the time and that's what made it an indy. You gonna effing say it's my effing fault? Okay, it's my mother-effing fault. I'll effing say when it's my mother-effing-loving-effing fault. Hence why I turned to big blockbusters and foreign films for a long stretch. Dish curses like a cracked-out sailor but I can see when my audience's eyes glaze over. I pressed the fast forward button just to see my mustachioed imaginary boyfriend, though he doesn't appear on Disk 1. If Mercury in Retrograde doesn't eff up delivery, the next disk is coming soon, and so are the soiled doves in the brothel.
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