Random Saturday Ramblings
Exactly what it says on the tin.
The Love Life of a Dentist
So I went to the dentist after work yesterday evening. It was the usual traumas. Injections, weird metallic objects shoved into places they shouldn't belong, drills, and a bunch of people peering into my mouth. And me, lying on a not terribly confortable chain, lying with my head slightly down (they do that so people that are really freaked out by the dentist are denied the option of fainting). I wasn't freaked out enough for loss of consciousness, but I don't like injection needles.
So to take my mind off of it, I tried to imagine why being a dentist could run a person's love life.
Look - here's the sort of stuff a guy is supposed to say to his girlfriend/wife:
- Your shoes are nice.
- You look really cute with that bow in your hair.
- That dress makes you look like a five year old. (beat) God you're hot. (beat) You. Bed. Now.
And the dentist's version? Try this:
- Did you remember to floss?
- Don't drink that! It's nothing but sugar, chemicals, and sugar. Oh for the love of God think about your teeth!
- Sorry dear, not tonight. I just can't get that impending cavity in your upper third molar out of my head. (shudder)
Me? I get the insides of my mouth poked and prodded every so often. But, hey, he's the one that has to look inside other people's mouths every work day.
I'm nearly 42 and mom has finally (with reservations, mind you) decided to trust me with sharp objects. In this case, an electric hedge trimmer. A top-of-the-line model costing a whopping €35. Yes, I'm being sarcastic. It has a blade length of 50cm and a cutting ability of 20mm, but it seems to be the density rather than the width - it can struggle with thicker pieces of ivy and bramble. It has a braking mechanism to stop the blades quickly, and a double interlock - you won't get fingers chopped off (well, not yours) as you need to hold it firmly with both hands otherwise it won't start. I don't really have the hang of using it (having used it for all of about five minutes prior to this photo), but even so it took a patch of unruly bramble down to something the mower ought to be able to finish off. I'll need to get a longer extension lead for plugging it into, then it's open season on the ivy. In fact, no, it isn't open season, it's war.
My T-shirt is a big baggy. I'm not that fat. I'm wearing ear muffs because it was quite noisy. But gloves? Face protection? Meh - I just wanted to play with my new toy. For what it is worth, my wounds following this work was a horrible horrible gory... uh... nettle sting on my left index finger. I'll need to be signed off work for three weeks to recover, won't I? Hehehe...
The New Who
This evening was apparently the first of twelve episodes of series nine, though there must be some weirdness if we're on the
thirteenth twelfth Doctor and it's the ninth series. Evidently the earlier 26 don't count, I guess. Or maybe this is Who 2.0? Whatever, I have not really warmed to Capaldi. It's not that he is a bad Doctor, it isn't his grumpiness and "Scottish"ness; I think this series is making the Doctor a much darker person, and this darker edgier incarnation isn't necessarily in keeping with Doctor tradition. But, you know, if this is going to be the case, we can but lament the fact that Christopher Eccleston wasn't introduced in the way we all would have wanted to see - the tardis door cranks open and out he walks with a shotgun in each hand, and the words "Alright bitches, come get some". Wouldn't that have been an opening for the reboot?
So to this new Doctor. And no, I'm not going to compare him to Matt Smith like so much stuff I've read. If you want to know the quintessential Doctor, it has to be Tom Baker. But, alas, I pretty watch it for Clara Oswald. She does cute well, though I am a bit disappointed that the whole "Impossible Girl" thing has been forgotten about. Fair enough, the Whoniverse is an anachronism soup with stuff being retconned for convenience all the time. Like this new episode. Clara is a regular school teacher, right? Well, until UNIT calls for her aid and she walks in like she owns the place. What?
That said, there was a little bit of intentional anachronism soup that just made my day. I'm not going to describe in much detail (spoilers, spoilers) suffice to say this is olden times and The Doctor is about to go into an arena for a bout against a big ass guy with a suitably big ass weapon. So how does the Doctor choose to make his entrance? Easy! Belting out a guitar solo while standing atop a friggin' tank.
Tell you what. Let's forget Danny Pink ever existed. No more of that boo-hoo crap. If I wanted feels I'd watch Clannad again. So, let's have some more visual gags like that. If the all-new grumpy Doctor is going to pick up and use a weapon, I want him to fight his enemy. With a sword. On the top of a mountain. In a thunderstorm. I want Highlander to cower in shame. I want helicopter tracking shots. I want the sword-fight to be so damn intense that sparks fly every time the swords meet, even in times when it just isn't probable, especially in times when it isn't probable. I want them to command the forces of nature and direct lightning bolts through their swords at each other. I want the misses to take out entire buildings, and the hits to knock the opponent to another mountain. And I want Clara to stand in the middle helplessly looking from one to the other and getting rained on. A lot. 'cos that would be kind of sexy.
Then people will be like "This grumpy Doctor? He's kind of epic!" and "Matt Who?".
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