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Could be my age showing—make that resistance thereto—but I think I’ve grown somewhat open to (read: less than 100% against) remakes or re-imaginings, though the final product will invariably determine my verdict. “H50”, for instance, is a mediocre cops-on-location show that doesn’t even have the once-exotic setting going for it anymore; the BBC have done a far better job of incorporating the change in times for homeboy Shirley. I like his use of the hard drive metaphor for the human brain, if only because I’ve always complained how much the limited capacity of my huge head is like the 200MB 386/33 tower in my storage versus my wife’s newer, more compact desktop.

You’d expect it to happen more often, but it doesn’t: I followed up last night’s live-from-New York episode of 30 Rock—and not the awful second installment of the BBC’s new Sherlock that ended my evening… 2009, and cultural awareness hasn’t improved since The Talons of Weng-Chiang—with a dream featuring the cast of characters, myself of course among them. The details are so many tears in the rain, but I seem to recall being a lowly staff writer seeking Liz Lemon for recognition or otherwise and mistaking Alec Baldwin’s character’s last name as Geiss (his deceased mentor) at first before eventually addressing him as Mr. Donaghy. It was one of those typical frustrating affairs where I’d try and find someone who just refuses to be found, or get somewhere and even backtracking won’t return me to the same place. Either way, nothing nearly as good as Internet favorite-for-Superman role Jon Hamm’s “Please, I’m so tired!” line:

…marked somewhat of a turning point in my life, did it not, finally eschewing the standardized texts and being introduced to revisionist interpretations of the American Revolution and Civil War. (Hint: it was all about the Benjamins.) Or was it that episode of Doctor Who where it was suggested mankind had been used as an evolutionary vessel by an alien race? Either way, I doubt we happen upon the forks in our roads quite so suddenly, like the movie moments described in recommended reading storybooks, but there’s still an occasional revelation—to me, at least—like the original concept for the Return of the Jedi, and why it was ditched, that serves as a reminder of the direction we took. And helps close that certain chapter hearing about a first mate who stood up to the captain’s orders. Imagine the Hollywood that could have been…

Was being chased by some thugs, so I got into a car with a sharp-dressed lady offering a ride. This was apparently an episode of Doctor Who I had only read about online, and the driver was a notorious character by the name of Mrs. Foster. The black car was so small (not too unusual, however, for England), I couldn’t fit into the passenger seat completely and hung out the side as she spun through traffic, literally drifting backwards while being pursued. We stopped at a small office where she took me inside to reveal her secret: there were many different “versions” of her, clones, all at different ages. One was an old woman scientist who had developed the technology, another was a mother carrying a child for an infertile couple. This was how they justified their mischief. Just then a car arrived bringing bad news, in the form of two men whom I tried to keep out by closing a folding curtain the kind that separate banquet halls in hotels. One spoke with a Gaelic accent I could barely understand and insisted on seeing Mrs. Foster. He towered over me by at least a foot but I resisted and asked if he was a policeman; the other said no, but they were on their way. In the lobby behind them sat the rest of their party, and among them was Dr. Gregory House, to whom I pleaded—what’s your take on the moral outcome here? It was the right strategy, because he began a flashback to a case with an unhappy ending for the parents.

Kids these days can’t fathom what life was like pre-‘net, when your choice (and taste) in music was limited to college radio and sparse import sections of dank record stores, movies and television from overseas likewise made it only if you showed your support during PBS fund drives—which seemed to keep Tom Baker around forever; alas, a good thing—I might otherwise have read about the original ’85 BBC serial on a blog, tried to sit through 10-minute installments on YouTube then had 老婆 torrent me a Chinese fansub. The Mel Gibson remake stands as a perfectly serviceable thriller, but even with eco-terrorism and corporate conspiracy practically being Netflix categories now, was it ever gutted! And by the same director? Makes me fear for his Green Lantern. The whole Gaia angle and the unrealized new age-y direction leave little doubt that this was way ahead of its Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go time, yet still too out there for audiences today.

I like the new logo, even if initials haven’t cut it before, but the true test of one is probably whether it could replace any of its predecessors. Then, fail.

—Feet on beach.

—Teeth in wallet.

—Skull (Dalek’s) in pond.

—Porn among White trash:

Eight of the top 10 pornography consuming states gave their electoral votes to John McCain in last year’s presidential election […] While six out of the lowest 10 favoured Barack Obama.

Sounds like a Terry Nation Doctor Who story title, I know, but this is what came to mind when I woke up in the middle of the night. Aliens had invaded my immediate world, which consisted of a short train trip: they appeared, in the form of an electrically-charged gaseous cloud, in a car further up and made their way towards us. Somehow I managed to survive the experience, but was forced to relive it—luckily, however, I was placed at the station ahead of the attack and felt safe as long as I could last the next ten or so minutes. But strange rolling creatures littered the landscape, moving in repetitive patterns that resembled traditional videogame obstacles. They were easy enough to avoid, but my body wasn’t responding, as if unnatural weight were placed on my shoulders. I doubled back, but in my strain to move I became careless and didn’t notice that there was a second familiar character in my view, a fake that grabbed me when I got close. The thing held me tightly around the torso from behind like the Japanese ex-girlfriend in Shutter and squeezed, and this pain remained even after I opened my eyes. It was then I imagined how they might continue to torture us in our dreams (not too original an idea, as all the Freddy Krueger movies will attest), and actually worried about falling asleep again.

…Segue from yesterday’s Tom Baker Doctor to his earlier role (looks like from a year before) as the hardest-working villain, ever. Ray Harryhausen’s Kali is fantastic. And Caroline Munro was the woman of my dreams for the next decade.