Unsettled

I suppose that it’s NOT okay to call in “unsettled” to work because of the latest Buffy episode. Wife reminds me that it was “Angel” that we watched last night. “I know. But I’m so unsettled by ‘Buffy’ that I haven’t begun to work on ‘Angel.'” I can’t see how they’re going to win. She offers, helpfully, that they’re not. It occurred to me that, with only a few episodes left in the series, they’re going to start hurting people — and then, they poked Xander’s eye out. Harsh. I’m going to stop watching this show. Soon. I’d have stopped already, if it weren’t all universal-truthy.

There are so many things wrong with the grammar of that paragraph, and I just don’t have what it takes to make the tenses agree today.

Bought an Entertainment Weekly yesterday, my train-ride Hollywood info-porn. Matrix Reloaded on the cover — not Keanu, thank god, or I really wouldn’t have bought it (though it’s the perfect role for him, as the speaking is absolutely minimal), but Agent Smith and two new chicks. No Carrie-Anne Moss. Hello? In the movie, but barely in the magazine. Most dead-cool movie heroine since, say, la Femme Nikita originale, and she’s featured in a postage-stamp sized photo. I want my money back.

Rode one of the new trains yesterday. Rocked. Extremely comfortable seats, great climate control, decent ride, outlets everywhere, clean windows. However, next time someone says, “You sure you want to have a meeting in the city on Passover?” my answer should be, “Why, no, no I don’t, because the return train will apparently be absolutely mobbed with families coming north for seders, carrying bags of food and boxes tied with string, and these people will be somewhat vague on the general rules of train travel, such as sitting the hell down so that other people can get through the aisle to their seats.” On the upside, the usual business assholes screaming into their cell phones were much less in evidence. (Yes, I use the phone on the train. However, I have learned, through much experimentation, that the cell phone has a magical device called a microphone, which makes it unnecessary to scream into the phone. Conversational tones will be picked up by the phone and then relayed in microscopic envelopes by Cell Faeries.)

Congratulate me, I’ve nearly survived the first round of the first level of Ghost Recon, playing at the Cub Scout intensity (the enemy fires corks at you). I have learned that getting the sniper into position is key. Still, my eye has been put out many, many times. In another few weeks, the game may let me play with actual ammo. My inner 15-year-old is shamed by my computer-game inadequacy.

Unsettled. And where’s Anya?