The weekend. Sour-puss version.

Friday was St. Patrick's, the night many await with great foam-hatted, green be-decked, liver-be-damned anticipation. I am not one of those people. Nor do I wish to associate with and/or imply that I share kinship (ethnic or otherwise) with them. I'm not talking about the Irish, mind you--I loves me my Irish brothers and sisters--I mean the Irish-for-a-day who use the holiday as an excuse to drink to excess and who, therefore, due to lack of practice, are remarkably poor at it. Rank amateurs...taking up valuable real estate at the bar. Thank god they wear those stupid flashing buttons (is it mandatory, I wonder? Like those "STUDENT DRIVER" signs all over driving school cars?), it makes it easier to steer clear. My St. Patrick's? A coupla Crif Dogs and a root beer with my friend L, and home and hiding on the couch with G by seven. Where I sit, I had the better St Paddy's no matter what you threw up on.

Saturday and V for Vendetta. Don't worry about spoilers because I was so very nonplussed I forgot the details of the film before I'd fully exited the theater. But there are those who will find the film deeply thought provoking I'm sure. People who've never read V for Vendetta to start with, or Transmetropolitan, or other books and/or films such as Nineteen Eighty-four, or Anthem, or Brave New World, or A Clockwork Orange, or Ferenheit 451, or The Handmaid's Tale, or It Can't Happen Here, or We, to name a few, or those who've never heard of a guy named George Bush or a thing called Fox News. Those folks might be wowed. However if you read books or watch the news or pay any attention to the world at all, you, like me, will find yourself sitting in your seat going "...and?" Which isn't the fault of the original story certainly, which was wonderful, or the film, ultimately. It's that something gets lost in a fantastic cautionary what-if tale about a theocratic corporation who run the world and the terrorist(s) who try to undo them, when it's reality. I guess I needed the characters and the story-line to be way more graphic-novelly (you say English butcher, I say neologist) to be duly transported and properly entertained, or way more realistic, so I might have been edumacated about something I don't know. Terrorist are, al la Soilent Green, people? People created by corrupt governments? You don't say! Bah.

Sunday I rose at an ungodly hour for no good reason, and because of which spent the rest of the day attempting to nap. Unsuccessfully. Right up until our beloved friend M showed up for TACO NIGHT!!! (caps and exclamation for the glee, the sheer out of one's head glee taco night produces around here--see we are capable of being amused and/or pleased) and the second Soprano's episode of the season. I was all ready to hate the Sopranos. Them and their two year oh your all like a bunch of crack heads and you'll crawl back on your knees with mom's jewelry no matter what we do hiatus. But damn if that isn't a great show. The downside is that we promised Maud, who had intended to watch with us but who was out of town this Sunday, that G and Mr. Maud and I would reenact the episode for her to get her up to speed. However the episode (teeny spoiler ahead!) was mostly what was going on in Tony's head while in a coma, so it's proving difficult to rehearse. Thus far all I've got is the Wayne and Garth "diddle-o, diddle-o, diddle-o" wiggly fingers they use to usher in a dream sequence, and a lot of heavy nose breathing. (Seriously, do they mic James's snout or what? He sounds like a flipping Sleestak. James! May I suggest...Afrin?)