Photo of the day :Unplugged

Next week back to the cute.

Photo of the day: Seasonless

Rather like my allergies that have no clue what season we're in.

Photo of the day: It's Like a Naked Transformer

For mature audiences only.

Photo of the day: Do You Have a Flag?

Courtesy of the brilliant Eddie Izzard.

Photo of the day: Fall

OK, so we're not Vermont. But here was have color. And sturdy beds.

Photo of the day: Non Native Species

But eucalypyus are loverly trees.

Little Women
It was one of those books I swear I read years ago. But while channel surfing a month ago I came across the 17th film version of Little Women and had the urge to read it "again." I was even thinking of making it my book group choice, until I realized it was 475 pages long.

Anyway I picked it up at a bookstore (I also swore I owned a copy) and jumped in.

Hmmm.... First off, I can see why it's a classic. It's quite charming, sweet, and engaging. In a mad dose of PMS I even cried a bit (and if you tell anyone I'll break your arm). But in spite of the fact that, as a movie fan, I've seen every adaption it was surprisingly annoying. I'm just too cynical to believe anyone is that damned good. Every one of the March girls is so self-sacrificing, selfless, reverent, brave, thrifty and every other Boy Scout virtue that after awhile it began to wear on me. Sure they have their moments of petulance, rebellion and ego. And yes none of them are perfect. But it's hard for my modern, atheistic mind to deal with their goodness. It's also difficult for me to let go of my 21st century belief that the highest calling for any woman is to be a wife and mother.

In spite of all that I enjoyed the book and am glad I finally read it. But It was hard to relate to the concept of these spirited girls al l giving up their dreams to marry and have children. And they didn't even really give up, the just sort of realized that their true happiness lay in marriage and motherhood.

I suppose in their generation it did. And, in fact, that was how my antediluvian mother raised me, which is, perhaps, why I had such a strong negative reaction to their fates. But the strange fact is even knowing from all the movies that Jo gives up writing to marry her Professor, it still disappointed me.

Photo of the day: Pretty in Pink

You can feel the stickiness from here, can't you?

In Which I Drive Myself Mad. Mad, I Say!
Inspired by my friend, Finny, who is a very inspiring person, I have signed up for National Novel Writing Month.NaNoWriMo (as those of us in the know call it) is billed as "thirty days and nights of literary abandon." Oh yeah....30 days to write a 50,000 word novel. Whee! It's gonna be crap. But it's gonna be fun.

Photo of the day: And There Was Much Screaming

A ride from the local weekend carnival.

Photo of the day: The Floating Carnival Floats By

It's time for the local Catholic Church's annual "Fall Festival". Big excitement in a small town.

Photo of the day: My Anti-Snooze Button

This is usually marching on me somewhere at 3 am like I'm Georgia and she's Sherman.

Photo of the day: Scenic View

Up at the reservoir. A total Zen sight.

Rain
The first big storm of the season hit us last night and is still ranging on. We've already lost power (briefly) and there are reports of downed trees and mild flooding in various areas. It's cold and nasty and wet and so beautiful I can't stop smiling.

I love a good storm. Of course I haven't been out in this one yet, I've only admired it from the safety of my cozy house with a cup of tea and a sleepy cat nearby. Those elements combine to make a perfect stormy day. But I'll be going out soon to do my show tonight and am actually looking forward to seeing the world through a wave on the window.

This kind of weather turns me into a total hibernating bear. Give me a stack of books, maybe a good old movie on TV, enough food to survive for days and I'll not set foot over the threshold where there's a storm raging.

I'll take long, hot baths. I'll put a dash of Bailey's into a mug of hot cocoa at night. I'll snuggle into pillows and sofa and lose myself in whatever book I'm devouring at the time. And life is truly wonderful.

Photo of the day: Waiting for the Rain

A big rainstorm is predicted for the Bay Area. It's 2:30 am on Tuesday and no sign of it yet. Though there have been signs that the little shelter I built from bricks and plastic to keep the outside cat food dry has been found and possibly demolished by the raccoons. Tomorrow shall see. For the moment I have my own kitty here thinking that's it's time to get up and I must discourage this notion by trying to sleep while being walked on and being meowed at. Wish me luck.

Photo of the day: Kitten Photos Galore!

I've made a book out of my kitten photos. Not for profit, mainly just to share with my fellow nursery volunteers. But you can look through it for the "best of" the cutest faces ever.

Photograph of the day: Overgrown

Yeah, I'm the schizophrenic lady who alternates cute kitten photos with pictures from graveyards. I need to get out and shoot more.

Photo of the day: Half and Half

Because life is just better when you're relaxing half in and half out of a big blue donut.

Photo of the day: Zen And the Art of Nibbling On Toilet Paper Rolls

The rules are very simple, but the act itself takes great concentration.

Photo of the day: til death do us part

From one of my Colma visits. I think it's both sad and sweet and makes me hope in an afterlife where they can be together again.

Photo of the day: The Weather is Getting Colder

So the remaining kittles are very happy to find a ram lap full of soft towels to curl into. We love it too.

Heroes
The world today is seriously fucked up when it comes to heroes. Generations of kids have grown up idolizing people whose only quality is unlimited wealth. Football players who miraculously graduated from notable colleges but still can't speak English properly. So-called "superstars" with no taste but plenty of cash.

And when it comes to female heroes (I hate the word "heroine") who is there? Angelina Jolie? OK, Oprah's done a lot of good with her money but when it comes down to it she's just a talk show host.

I've been thinking a lot lately about women I admire. Not just my friends (although I do love and admire all of them) but women whose life made a difference for the better. Here are a few women who should be remembered but mostly aren't:

Edith Cavell: A British nurse and all-around good soul who is credited with saving nearly 200 allied soldiers in WWI by hiding them from the Germans. She was tried and executed for her actions. One of her most memorable sayings is "patriotism is not enough."

Vera Brittain: Writer, feminist and pacifist. After losing her only brother, her fiance, and her two best friends she dedicated her life to peace. Her memoir of WWI Testament of Youth chronicles her losses and her experiences as a nurse on the front lines of the Great War.

Violet Szabo and Noor Inayat Khan: Both operatives with the Special Operations Executive during WWII. Each volunteered for duty inside occupied France and each was captured, tortured, and executed by the Nazis. I cannot imagine the courage it would take to voluntarily go into enemy territory to help fight for a cause you believe in.

Alva Belmont: Alva was rich but her heart was definitely in the right place. "I have been crying in the wilderness for wealthy women to give up their leisure and do something to justify their existence." She was a major benefactor of women's rights and campaigned tirelessly for better and safer working conditions for female factoring workers.

Myrlie Evers-Williams: "You can kill a man but you can't kill an idea." After her husband Medgar Evers was murdered, Myrlie dedicated her life to civil rights. She was the first woman to serve as board chair for the NAACP.

I could list a dozen more, but I don't want to bore you. Each of these women inspires me in some way. And I hope one day to do something remarkable enough to make someone else's list.

Photo of the day: Kitten Sittin'

For some reason this little guy kept trying to sit up on his back feet. He'd only manage it for a few seconds before plopping back down. Between you and me, I think his little round belly got in the way.

The Endless Question
I hate to sound all housewife-y, but I'm fed up with cooking dinner.

I have never enjoyed cooking. Baking is different. I love to make cookies -- probably because they taste better than any dinner I can make. But I hate cooking dinner. Sometimes I think it's not the cooking as much as I hate deciding what to cook every day. I don't have a very expansive repertoire (sorry, Husband) and when I do try something new it tends to suck. There have been many nights I've gotten all adventurous only to end up making popcorn when my chicken a la prune tastes like chicken a la prune. To make it worse I have a cupboard full of cookbooks that really do nothing but take up space.

Part of the problem is that when I'm at the grocery store I can never think of what to buy. So I fall back on the fallback; usually chicken. Then of course I get home and have no clue what to do with it. Having no culinary imagination, I'll stand in front of the cupboard looking at random ingredients and trying to guess what chicken will taste like with peanut butter and cereal on it. (Yes I'm kidding.)

When it does occur to me to consult one of my many cookbooks or a recipe website I'll stumble across something that sounds wonderful only to realize that I don't typically keep apple butter and soba noodles in the pantry. Sure I have the staples, but after a while the staples are boring.

And poor Husband comes home after working so hard, gives me the inevitable question of "what do you want to do about dinner?" and i fall into a mindless stupor.

Photo of the day: A Bit of Moss


As we stagger towards full with this freakish weather -- 90 one day-60 the next -- I find myself looking forward to getting out there and shooting some more. I'll miss the nursery when it closes officially but am anticipating being able to put in some good work in the next few months.

Photo of the day: Great Grandfather

I bought this antique camera years ago. It seems odd to be photographing it with today's modern digital cameras. In its day this old, elegant machine was state-of-the-art. Collapsable, for easy storage. With a sturdy case for traveling. It's a beautiful camera, far more stylish than what I'm using now. My current camera, while lovely and full of tricks is not, it itself, a good subject for a photograph. But back in the day they made things beautiful for the sake of beauty, and it still shows. I doubt 75 years from now someone will pick up my camera and say "wow, this is gorgeous." But they mind find this one man and still marvel at the sophisticated design and elegant black and gold tones. Ah...they don't make 'em that way anymore. Sadly.

Photo of the day: Box Surpremacy

Because everyone wants to be king of the box.

Photo of the day: Posing



The kitten nursery closed this week. But I'm staying on with a few others to continue to care for the remaining kittens until they go out to foster or up for adoption. That means the cute kitten photos will be running out soon, so I'm posting them while I can. The good news is that once I have more free time I can go out and start taking pictures of other things again.

Photo of the day: You Can Never Have Too Many Cute Kitten in Box Pictures

At least not where I'm concerned.

Because sometimes...
...you just need to laugh at white trash people. Check out People of Walmart.

Photo of the day: Being Stared At

These two are extra curious about the world around them. And the ladies with the food.

Crazy
I read a news story today about animal abuse. It was a particularly cruel event (complete with photo) and it upset me greatly. You know how material people get when they read about child abuse? All "let me at them and I'll rip their heads off?" That's how I am with animals.

I've always loved them. Now, I suppose, I'm fanatical. I just cannot understand the viscousness required to hurt a defenseless animal. What kind of warper person thinks of, and decides to act on, the desire to hurt a cat or a dog?

Seriously makes me crazy. Makes me want to pick up a baseball bat and go after the motherfucker.

Photo of the day: From the Outside Looking In

From inside the outer looking into the inner.

Scenes from Silver Creek: The Sentinel

Silver Creek’s answer to the New York Times was the Silver Creek Sentinel. Known to every kid in town as “the Senile,” it was a true mom-and-pop operation that was written, edited, formatted, printed, and delivered by Keezer and Edie Palman.

Keezer’s claim to journalistic experience was limited to writing a weekly “new recruit” column in the Ft. Dix newsletter while a medical clerk in WWII. Edie had a natural flair for gentle humor but a deplorable lack of attention to detail, which made each week’s issue a haven for unintentionally hilarious headlines and stories and howling misspellings. For example, after a rash of car break-ins the local police offered a reward for information. The Sentinel posted this news under the headline “$50 Reward for Car Thefts.” Which made it sound like a quick way to pick up $50. Notable typos included stories about the fundraising “carp wash,” a review of the high school’s production of “Our Twin,” and a fire at Birningham’s “Cry Cleaners.”

The heyday of juvenilely funny headlines came during the five years when Thomas Hooker was mayor. Every week there would be a story such as “Hooker Speaks to Kindergarten Class,” “Hooker Lands 20 lb. Trout,” and my ultimate favorite “Local Bishop Visits Hooker.” When you’re 12-years old, this is great stuff.

The rest of the paper was made up of such useless information as the attendees at a child’s birthday party, an out-of-town guest visiting some local citizen, or an interview with exciting luminaries like the postmaster and the head librarian. And, of course, each issue included must-read features such as the week’s menu in the high school cafeteria and a run-down of the local police blotter. The latter was where Edie really shined. I still have a clipping that reads: Mrs. Philip Carpenter of Blossom Road was mystified by finding one of her three garden gnomes repeated tipped over. Police identified the culprit as Lucy, the cocker spaniel of neighbors Mr. and Mrs. Robert Grover. Lucy has been sentenced to several days of “bad dog” and the withholding of milk bones.”

One of my favorite features was “Simon Sez,” which highlighted quotes by Simon Lang, the requisite odd duck and our own Yogi Berra. Simon was known for his incomprehensible homilies, nonsensical statements, and imponderable observations on life. Nearly every issue of the newspaper included at least one of Simon’s statements. “Sweaters don’t grow on trees,” “It takes a pigeon to see a statue from all sides,” “George Washington didn’t need a wife,” (which seemed highly unfair to Martha), and “If you don’t want the truth, don’t talk to the cat.” Many of these wonderfully weird comments became catch phrases in our family and to this day one of my brothers still says, “having pants don’t make you a man.”

When I was a little girl, every woman in town that received a mention in the Sentinel was referred to by her husband’s name. It was always Mrs. Louis Feldman or Mrs. Daniel Shaefer. Never Mary or Lorna. This always bothered me, but that was the way of the world back then. Married women had no identity other than that provided by their husband. Unmarried women were allowed to be Miss Jane Doe, but as soon and Jane married she magically lost her first name. Even if the woman were to be the center of the story, it would still be Mrs. Husband. “Mrs. Erwin Haefner Beaks Leg in Supermarket,” or “Mrs. Ralph Meeks to Visit Paris with Sister.”

Like most families in Silver Creek, our family received its share of column space. My siblings’ birthday parties, my sister winning a spelling bee, my father getting a promotion. All was considered public domain.

The one thing that always perplexed me was the inexplicable, invisible line drawn by the Palmans when it came to bad news. I could never understand why a wedding got a mention, but a much gossiped about divorce never did. Funeral notices were reverent and sanitized. A “lengthy illness” was always mentioned but anything tragic wasn’t. When Libby Rossman was killed in a skiing accident there was a brief news story with very few details, but her obit was full of phrases like “taken too soon,” and “unfortunate tragedy.” Even though we all talked about nothing but the grisly details, the Sentinel remained coyly silent throughout.

They were also careful not to name names of the guilty in the police blotter or short news pieces. When the Fowler twins were found to be responsible for setting fire to Mr. Meerson’s garage, the paper stayed mum about whodunit, despite the fact that we all knew. And Floyd Paulson’s penchant for public drunkenness was mentioned only as “a local tippler” although half the town had driven him home when found wandering around town.

Sadly the Sentinel closed down before I was out of high school. But it lives on in lined drawers all over town.

Photo of the day: Two for One

The only thing better than a cute kitten sleeping in your arms is two cute kittens.

Photo of the day: Cookies

A new recipe. Next time I'll cut back on some things, add a few others. They look lovely, don't they? But I'm not yet pleased with the taste.

Photo of the Day: Riding the Wind

A beautiful day on the bay.

I Am Not a White Supremacist
But my TiVo thinks I am. I recorded a program about hate crimes a week or so ago and since then it's recorded programs about skinheads, the Klan, fringe white supremacist groups and racial crimes in prison. I just saw an ad on the National Geographic channel entitled "American Nazis" and something tells me I'll find that in my TiVo suggestions within the week.

In the midst of all this I received the latest "Teaching Tolerance" from the Southern Poverty Law Center; a fine organization that Husband and I support. Oh the irony.

I'm amused at the Tivo brain that takes one program and then stuffs my "Now Playing" box with any show about racist, homophobic bigots. It's almost like it thinks I want to commit a hate crime and it's giving me all my options. I had no idea there were so many programs about people beating the crap out of anyone they feel is inferior. Kinda makes me want to beat the crap out of someone I feel is inferior (the aforementioned racist, homophobic bigot). (And yes, I'm kidding.)

Photo of the day: Me and My Shadow

But I was not strolling down the avenue. Nor was I feeling blue.

Photo of the day: The Bouncer

He ma be cute, but if you try to get past this doorkeeper you'll need all your wits and most of you cat toys. And even then you'll find once you get inside the box that you don't fit after all.

Photo of the day: Wrapped Up in Cute

The nursery will be closing next week, though I might stay on as part of the skeleton crew to take care of the ones still in quarantine. But until then, I'm still free to post amazingly cute kitten photos. This is from one of the kittens in residence earlier in the season. He's already gone home with someone. Yay!

Photo of the day: The Benefits of a Classical Education

My favorite line from Die Hard.

Football
I am outrageously happy that football season has started. Don't get me wrong, I'm still tuning in to watch my Giants play baseball. But there's something about football that, to me, signals the arrival of fall and the beginning on Sundays where I never want to leave to sofa. Typically there's only one game that I really care about; OK, sometimes two. As a native of the SF Bay area I naturally follow the Niners. As a native Philadelphian, Husband favors the Eagles. I've become an Eagles fan too (no offense, Niners, but the Eagles have been more fun and far less frustrating to watch the past few seasons). But this year we're boycotting the Eagles and not watching a single game because they stupidly went and signed noted prick and convicted dog hater, Michael Vick. We refuse to support any organization that hires him, so no Eagles for us this year. Which is sad, as I absolutely love Donovan McNabb.

But from the 10 am game, to the 1 pm game to Sunday Night Football (still have a hard time with it not being on Monday. Yes, there's a Monday game but it's not the same without Al and .... oh wait, he's retired. OK, Al and Kris.) I could easily sit there and not move except to get up to pee or get something to eat. And the thing is I'm not all that interested in most of the teams. I just the ritual of it all. Even if it's just on in the background as I'm doing something else, there's something surprisingly comforting about the familiarity of it all. The cheering. The bad beer ads. The truck commercials. The hilarious close up of the vapid cheerleaders and trying to figure out who has the skankiest of them all. (Here's a hint, I call the Eagles cheerleaders "the Ho-Hos."

But whether I'm actively engaged, swearing at the screen and making a general ass of myself (because they can't hear me and they're all dopes because they haven't had a passing game all day and yet they keep trying to connect). Or if I'm barely paying attention and focusing on making catnip socks or reading the Sunday paper, it's still a fall ritual that I love.

Quarantine
The nursery is coming into its last month and, sadly, it's ending on a quarantine. Ringworm. We've already lost some kittens but I think the ones left will be fine -- aside from getting too big for their kennels and in desperate need to get out.

Quarantine presents many extra precautions and, as a consequence, a bit more work. We wear plastic gowns (lovely in the heat) and gloves. Everything has to be extra bleached after each litter (the scale, the tables, the food bowls, etc.) Plus lots of floor mopping, extra hand washing, and general cleanliness. We even have to step in bleach whenever we leave the nursery to we don't track ringworm to the rest of the shelter.

But with the nursery closing I'll have more time on my hands. I'm at the shelter every weekday now: three days at the nursery, three days with the cats. Once the nursery shuts down I'll be doing three days of cats. So that leaves me with two free weekdays to get involved in something else.

I'm trying to figure out where I'd like to volunteer next. I'm considering a local food bank, a homeless shelter network, or something with a local environmental group (Save the Bay, Peninsula Open Space Trust, that kind of thing). But if any of you know of a worthy organization, preferably in San Mateo County, that needs a day or two a week of volunteering, please let me know,

Photo of the day: Abstract Patterns That Become a Blanket

One of the few things that belongs to my grandmother than I actually like, aside from her bedroom furniture.

Photo of the day: A Hatbox Full of Girl Groups

One of the best CD boxed sets ever designed. Love the hat box.

Photo of the day: The Sky is Falling

Well, the paint is, anyway.

Photo of the day: Go, Seabiscuit! Go!

As immortalized in the book, the movie and, of course, the shopping mall.

Photo of the day: At Sail in a Sea of Green

Dramamine not included. Or necessary.

Photo of the day: Air Cooled Gorilla

Because how could I not?

Go Left at Walgreens
Women give directions differently than men. This is not a news flash. But it constantly amazes me at how much easier it is for I, as a woman. to follow directions given to me by another women.

Females are associational and, to my mind, more helpful men when it comes to telling you how to get from A to B. "Turn left on Main, go two blocks. At Pierce there's a Bank of America, turn left. At the third stop sign, turn left on Center Street and then turn right, at the McDonalds, onto Walker.

Men will say "Go northeast on Main. Stay on Main for 2.3 miles and turn south onto Pierce."

Really? Northwest? South? Let me get my compass and sextant. Who the fuck am I, Magellan? Don't make me base my trip on the position of sun. Give me directions I can follow.

Photo of the day: Come On Now and Sing it with Me....

...at the carwash, yeah.

Photo of the day: The Case of the Curious Kittens

These two are my prime suspects. They certainly look guilty, don't they?

Scenes from Silver Creek: Watson

Watson was a fat orange tabby owned by our next-door neighbors when I was growing up. One of the four redheaded Orr kids did the old “he followed me home” bits and Watson moved into their house and our street.

Watson e thought any yard with a sunbeam was fair game, any door open to the summertime heat an invitation, and any lap his rightful domain. He would follow anybody down the street, indignantly meowing at a lack of pets. During the morning parade of kids walking to school in the morning he would sit in front of the Orr house and we would all dutifully pat his head as we walked by. Once the first child made his appearance on the sidewalk Watson would pad over, plunk his plump butt down, and wait for the pilgrimage. Every kid on the street, even the ones who didn’t like cats, would bend down to stroke his head or scratch his twitchy ears. Then, the ritual completed to his satisfaction, he would head off to start his day. It was a busy life with butterflies to chase, birds to chirp at, squirrels to scold and other cats to intimidate.

Of the five or six cats on our block at any one time, Watson was definitely the ringleader. He was the one who always held his ground when another would dare to invade his turf. He was the one that cruised the lady cats who always seemed sadly unimpressed with his strutting bluster. Although fixed, he never seemed aware of the fact and his attempts to play Romeo were numerous and legendary. A conscientious would-be suitor, his best effort involved bringing the corpse of Rudy Gardoff’s hamster, Dutch (recently and too shallowly buried in the Gardoff’s rose garden) to the Arthur’s brown tabby, Mona. Mona, at that time enamored of a black monster of unknown parentage and ownership seemed pleased at the offering but still preferred to keep company with someone else.

In spite of his masculine bravado, Watson was endlessly patient with any bored child who wanted to play dress-up or war. One of my favorite childhood photos shows me holding him, overfilling my chubby child’s arms, as he looked with surly acceptance at the camera in a tiny sailor hat. When my Barbie married Melissa Garth’s Ken, Wilson was both flower girl and minister. And when the Orr kids reenacted by Battle of the Bulge, Watson was (for some reason historically incongruous reason) George Washington.

Watson lived to the ripe old age of 16 and when he died the whole street turned out for his funeral. Mr.Orr played “Amazing Grace” and “The Alley Cat Song” on the harmonica and Mrs. Baciagaloupi made a mouse-shaped wreath from the flowers in the back garden. (Although she had to explain it was a mouse because we all thought it was Idaho.) He was buried under their oak tree, in a spot where he would while away the hot summer afternoons in the shade. And for many years there was a small wooden cross on which was painted “Watson Orr. A fine cat.’

Photo of the day: Thank You Neighbors

For planting flowers and making our street look lovely.

Photo of the day: Garnish

When it's on a building, it's architectural interest. When it's on a plate, it's garnish.

Photo of the day:World's Cutest Swastika

Four tiny heads arranged for maximum sluppage around the lunch bowl.

Photo of the day: Going Green

From the bamboo that will not die.

Once Again the Animal Kingdom Proves its Superiority
Pigeon beats broadband.

Photo of the day: A Door You Don't Want to Go Through

At least not if you're a lost cat or abandoned dog. This is the door next to the night depositories for when people have animals to bring in after hours. I suppose it's not too scary. You'll have a nice vet tech look you over and will be given a warm, safe, comfy place to sleep. Plus food. And when people show up in the morning they'll talk to you nice and pet you and make sure you're OK. But it's still not the best way to arrive. It's also how volunteers arrive when the shelter is closed on a holiday. So on Labor Day I aligned myself with whatever critter was making noise in one of the drop cages and had to wait for someone to come collect us.

Photo of the day: Gated

I don't know why I find this gate photogenic, but I do. So you have to live with it.

Crazy Cat
No, not ours (though she is crazy. No, it's this guy who turns a cat's love of running water into the weirdest way to get a drink I've ever seen.

Beware of Hot, Naked Space Vampire Chicks
In a fit of lazy lunacy the other day, Husband and I spent the entire day in bed. We watched two good movies (Ghostbusters, and Still of the Night), 20-minutes of a crappy movie (The Mist), and about an hour of a truly memorable extra-crappy movie Lifeforce.

We didn't make it through the whole thing, but here's the plot: spaceship finds three naked aliens in Halley's Comet. One female, two male. Group of astronauts spends moments ogling the hot naked female alien in her glass coffin. They don't even seem to notice the guys. Naked aliens brought on ship. Again, camera shows us hot naked female alien (hereafter known as HNFA). Spaceship doesn't come home so rescue ship goes up. Inside of ship crispy. Inside and outside of crew, crispy. Naked aliens in glass coffins fine thank you. Everyone comes home to England where the two naked guys are ignored but HNFA is, of course, put in a separate room. Horny guard comes in for a closer ogle, HNFA wakes up and sucks the life out of him. Unnamed scientist sees this on the security cam and runs through 17 doors to do his own tonsil dance with HNFA. Luckily she just tires him out, doesn't do the life suck thing. HNFA wanders through headquarters where more security guards try to offer her a sammich. Not interested in a midnight snack, she does a little zap-dance and leaves. Still naked.

Frank Finlay says something scientific. Peter Firth does his best James Bond as some weird secret service guy with bad hair and a "don't fuck with me, I've done Shakespeare" attitude.. Steve Railsback, who I've never heard of and who looks like the love child of Charles Manson and Eleanor Roosevelt, walks around with a perpetual expression of pissed confusion. He was captain of the original spaceship and has this hot Vulcan mind-mend thing with NHAC. He even has a dream about her coming to his bed and inviting him to do a little hot naked alien Charleston and is such a wuss that he wakes up screaming. As he was under video observation by everyone on the planet, I suppose it's probably best he didn't get a woody. But really? HNAC wants to do you baby and that's a nightmare?

Meanwhile they finally remember the naked male aliens, who look like gay love twins. They last all of about 15 seconds until they start to do the vampire zombie come-hither dance at which point the SAS plug them with 321 bullets. (I counted.) So much for the naked male aliens who weren't that hot and not much naked either.

The rest of the movie involves hot chick picking up bloated old guy in a beat-up Volvo, Patrick Stewart (!) practically mincing as the head of an insane asylum where a gigantic male nurse will pump anyone full of sodium pentathol provided anyone in the world who outranks him tells him to. We find out the Peter Firth character is a natural voyeur and that if some reincarnated guard un-dies again in the exact way Frank Finlay predicted that Frank's sympathetic response is basically "I told you so." We get Captain Steve slapping some hapless nurse and getting damned close to kissing Patrick Stewart because HNFA is inside Patrick and old Steve has this love/hate thing going on with her. Oh and we learn the valuable lesson that if you lurk in parks hoping to see some girl-on-girl action that you're liable to find a sucked-out body.

I think we lost interest after the "are you Captain Picard or are you HNAC?" pseudo-kiss so I have no clue, nor any interest, in how it ends. But I have to wonder how they got so many good actors (plus music by Henry Mancini) to participate in such a huge cinematic pile of doo-doo/

Photo of the day: It's All a Facade

Architecturally speaking, of course.

Photo of the day: Bricked

Not where you want to be standing during an earthquake.

Photo of the day: Tiled

Geometrically speaking, today was a wonderful day.