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By then I’ll be old as dirt (or buried beneath it), but the idea of a super man still makes me giddy. There’s just so little evidence in the world that one could possibly ever exist, and more than enough that we really, really need him.

I didn’t think much of this new-Who spinoff when I first read about it, nor the lead after sidekicking for Christoper “Fantastic!” Eccleston (whom I always thought should’ve been cast in a better Prisoner remake), but after being impressed by some of the other new concepts on television from across the pond, e.g., the Weeping Angels, Sherlock, Karen Gillan… I ventured into the series on Netflix over the weekend, and it wasn’t until the “Children of Earth” serial-season that I was with the Internet when it went out at 3:30am. The music is loud and bombastic like a Taiwanese soap and only worsens any dramatic effect, and the ADHD-catering hour-long format makes me miss my glory days with Tom Baker’s Doctor—though to be honest, many of those stories only ran long because Sarah Jane/Leela was constantly splitting up with him and getting into some mess—but I like how they don’t pull any punches when it comes to mortality and gender relations. You’d expect some dying fighting aliens and shit, and for a guy from the 51st century to have a different attitude towards sex.

Wasn’t quite sure this one was worthy of a write-up, though the details are still quite fresh, until I saw this during my morning surf:
I was returning to my hotel room on the second floor, but for some reason the elevator required I first go to the party on the ninth, so I shared it with a young couple (much like Amy & Rory from the new Doctor Who I’ve been trying to see what the fuss is all about) on their way to the eighth. At their stop, they removed a bunch of their things from the closet behind a sliding door, and I was less startled seeing a closet behind a sliding door on an elevator than learning people actually trusted their personal belongings in it. Finally on my way back, there was a PA announcement that former governor Schwarzenegger was in the building, and as luck would have it, he and his entourage were approaching my car. He wore an oversized tan suit, with a red stain on his white shirt like movie-prop blood. They got in, and the star was huge, towering even over my 6-foot height; I shook his hand nervously and told him it was an honor, and he snickered to his bodyguard, another Teutonic giant. The “car” became a bus, and the lot of us were pressed against each other—me, in Arnold’s crotch—for the ride across the city, with armed escort readying their M-16’s at every stop. I soon decided I’d had enough of this, if not to be rid of the poor example of a family man, then to stop even him from making me feel so inadequate, and shut down the dream as I would my PC. Windows closed, applications were forced to exit and I awoke.