I know everyone's whipped up into a lather about tomorrow's inauguration, but I won't be doing any posting about that, being that you can get that pretty much everywhere else. I'm all for it, of course, but I'd just wish they'd hurry up and swear the man in already so he can start fixing all the stuff our soon-to-be-former president managed to so severely fuck up. Also, it seems that a lot of folks – including some of my very dear friends -- are really super excited about the Pittsburgh Steelers going to the Super Bowl. I have absolutely zero to say about this because, basically, I simply do not give even the slightest whiff of a rolling rat fuck about football – nay – professional sports in general. Need a big, meat-necked jock's take on this pressing issue? You won't find it here.
So, anyway….
I did not marry my doppelganger. It's true that Peggy and I have similar sensibilities and opinions on things, and our respective tastes occasionally overlap (as I've laboriously pointed out in the past, the mere fact that she owned the 7" single from 1985 of Killing Joke's "Love Like Blood" was a crucial factor in my marriage proposal), we also like very different stuff indeed. While my idea of a quality entertainment usually involves silly voices, needless violence, gratuitous bloodshed and implausibly high-volume rock n' roll carnage, the wife differs rather pronouncedly. Peg's more a fan of the winsome period piece rife with baroque flourish, romantically ethereal poetry recitation and the doomed entanglement of star-crossed lovers. While I'm loathe to make her sit through my bajillionith viewing of "Apocalypse Now" or "The Warriors," when her big brown eyes light up upon hearing the news that "Masterpiece Theatre" is airing a televisual adaptation of one frilly literary classic or another, I usually surrender the remote.
Here's the thing, though: While Peg usually doesn't enjoy the shit I like to watch (although she did surprisingly love "Death Wish," – but who wouldn't?), I do find myself enjoying her shows. I thrilled to "The Forsyte Saga" and sat breathlessly rapt throughout "Bleak House." Sure, I still love proudly juvenile stuff like Motorhead and "The Aqua Teen Hunger Force," but I'm not finding myself shuddering with contempt at the notion of watching, say, a multi-episodic remake of "Tess of the D'Urbervilles." Maybe I've just gone soft. Maybe I was soft all along.
In any case, while seemingly the rest of the world was either foaming at the mouth watching the Pittsburgh Steelers pound the snots out of some team (I honestly can't even begin to tell you who they might have been playing) or listening to Beyonce screech like a car alarm on HBO's coverage of the Obama inauguration concert, Peg and I settled in for part one of "Masterpiece Theatre"'s new take on Emily Bronte's ridiculously romantic meistewerk, "Wuthering Heights." Even though I was only one hour into my umpteenth viewing of "Thunderball," I changed the channel without complaint and started to soak in the shamelessly histrionic antics of Heathcliff, Cathy, Linley, Edgar Linton et al. And lemme tell ya, it was pretty great.
Inspired by all that teary-eyed flouncing about on the moors, I fired up Kate Bush's fabled single of the same title on my iPod this morning during my snow-coated trek to work. It's somewhat remarkable that this was her very first single, being that it's inarguably ludicrous. The video below doesn't do it many favors either. Regardless, despite her chipmunkily melismatic warbling and her frankly bizarre choreography, it's still pretty great. Turn it up and get your Bronte on!
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