Laneways and Byways

I've been wandering memory lane lately, strolling through the late 90s and feeling all nostalgic. For some reason, it seemed like a good idea to sit down and work my way through episodes of Buffy, a character who is pretty much the same age as me. Funny how the more modern supernatural heroes are largely similar to me in age - must be something about my generation. First Buffy, then Harry Potter and co. I wouldn't be surprised to find out that, although the books came later, Bella Swan was actually born in the late 70s or early 80s as well. But I digress, as ever. From memory, the idea to revisit Sunnydale came from reading an article about a conference Monash University was hosting a couple of weeks back about female superheroes. Buffy was one of the illustrations used.

Watching these brought back all the things that were going on when I watched them the first time round. I'll always associate Buffy with major events, thanks largely to the fact that it was because of Buffy that I saw the second plane go into the World Trade Centre in real time. If I hadn't flicked my TV on to channel 10 for a little late night Buffy, I would have had no idea what had happened until the morning. Of course, the early years of the show were much more fun-filled than the later years. I think by September 11 she must have been defending the world for the fourth or fifth year - I can't remember, now.

But gong back over old ground makes me think I wasn't quite as much of an awkward nerd as I thought I was. Sure, I wasn't kicking butts all over town and looking hot while I was doing it, but neither was I being, say, Willow before she became a witch. I had hair that, on its good days, was as good as Buffy's - and was naturally honey blond, back then when I still saw sunlight on occasion, rather than the roots-showing die job that she often sported. My skirts weren't quite as short, and I never wore pants that looked like they were made of giraffe skin, but many of our other fashion choices matched. And Buffy was made before the size 0 fad hit, so even though she's incredibly fit - and as far as I know, Sarah Michelle Geller really was incredibly, realistically fit thanks to the training required for the role - she doesn't look like a strong breeze would snap her in half. I was just as socially awkward as the characters and, if I didn't have a huge night life, I also had my gang of close friends to see me through. But just as my friends have changed over the years, it seems that Buffy's might change as well.

There's been talk that they will re-make Buffy, new cast and all. It seems that we've hit that point in time where things that I remember loving the first time round are being re-hashed. Buffy. Dirty Dancing. Footloose. Next thing you know, they'll be doing Pretty Woman 2.0. I understand the nostalgia for things, I really do. Hell, I wander through the past quite happily. But do we really need to re-make a perfectly good cultural icon? We all know what happened when they tried to re-do Fame - and if you don't know, then that just proves my point. Sometimes it's better to let the original stand. and Buffy is one of those things that should be left alone, especially given that it's less than a decade since the original hung up her stake.

As a side note, I heard an interesting stat today. Yes, there is such a thing. Apparently, for every hour of television you watch, you lose 22 minutes off the end of your life. How they arrived at this figure, I shudder to think, but what it translates into, as far as I can tell, is that when you watch an hour of commercial television, you basically shorten your life by the same amount as the ad breaks take out of your hour. It's official. Ads are killing us.

Bedknobs and Broomsticks

It's amazing how combinations of factors can bring out the silliness. I've just spent a couple of hours on the couch with L watching some quality girlie DVDs. Well, one B-Grade chick flick starring Mandy Moore, at any rate, so we could ogle Matthew Goode. 

L and I have very different styles when we're forced to share a couch (too much washing drying in the living room means limited TV viewing positions). I'm quite happy with the whole each having half a couch in which to do as we please. But that doesn't seem to work for L. She slowly spreads until she occupies every inch of space that isn't taken up by my butt. Sometimes, like tonight, she will angle for this to include my hip, my shoulder, any part of me that is still long enough for her to prop part of her on. Sometimes I'm willing to put up with it, for the sake of peace so I can watch the movie. But tonight, I'd seen the movie before and it was chosen more for its man-candy than it's genius plot line, so I wasn't surrendering without a fight.

Clearly, neither of us has been getting enough sleep, because the silliness was in full flight. At one point I was described as a snuggle point. I'm not sure what that means; I'm not sure I want to, to be honest. But apparently, I'm comfortable as a pillow, as well. Inevitably, I started poking her. It didn't degenerate into some fantasy image for teenage boys, but pillows were thrown at each other. Neither of us was wearing skimpy pyjamas, though, so it's OK. 

It did - strangely - remind me of our last trip together, in Norway. That trip is the reason I was making certain that we were having separate beds when we head to New York. We ended up having to share a double. I know I'm no picnic to share a bed with. I apparently have a habit of rolling over with a dead arm and nearly braining whoever is next to me. Quite a few people have told me this. I've only connected with one person - sorry Lou - but the fear of god has been put into a few others at different times. But I've never done what L did to me. The bed was in an alcove, climbed into from one side and up against walls on the other three. I was soundly sleeping on the wall side, pushed as far against it as I could go thanks to L having similar bed tactics to the ones she employs on the couch. I woke up to find a pair of hands in the small of my back attempting to push me out of bed. Of course, there was nowhere for me to go except into the wall, in spite of my protests and attempts to wake her. It was uncomfortable enough that I'm determined to never be in the same position again - in every sense of that expression.

But I got my own back tonight. L ended up off the couch. So all's fair.

God we need to get a life.