Category archives: ponces

Dr. Who to the Rescue!

bow ties are cool


He’s the doctor. Dr. Who.

I grew up on the series in the UK, and imprinted helplessly on the manic Tom Baker incarnation of the time lord. I still love men with crazy teeth and curly hair.   The theme song alone makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.  As a kid, I often watched it from behind the couch when the rubbery monsters declared themselves. Ask any Brit, and they will affirm the same. We are all Wholigans.

One of the joys of parenting while your kids are still small is  forcing them to also imprint on the cultural footholds that anchored your own development. So when Friday night trips to the movies started to feel like a rip-off and a punishment for me, I found Dr. Who on Netflix, and made a standing appointment with the Doctor.

Now we are all utterly hooked. The episodes are clever, with saucy humor hidden between the lines for adults, and an over-arching ethos of courage, non-violence and cunning. There is a lovely lexicon of catchphrases, and long-running naratives to weave it all together. The baddies are scary, but not too scary.

The Doctor has already transmorgified a couple of times since we jumped in, so there’s one for everyone – the doe-eyed consumptive appeal of David Tennant, the rough-trade bulk of Christopher Eccleston, and the newest incarnation, the natty dorkihunk of Matt Smith

Episodes are short, and the back catalog is bottomless, so unroll the sleeping bags, make the popcorn, and have yourself a marathon of bbc goodness. After a couple of episodes you will rue all the money you’ve hurled at Pixar on your Friday nights over the years.

The battle-axe decision.

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,
ché la diritta via era smarrita.
Midway on our life’s journey, I found myself
In dark woods, the right road lost.


In the up-slope direction the forest thins, revealing a ground almost denuded of foliage; the path is lined with faux-marble statuary and tinkling wind chimes.

The way leading down into the forest valley seems treacherously uneven, overgrown with moss and littered with ice-cream sandwich wrappers and empty killians bottles.

The news is full of cougars, milfs, gilfs, as our new modern standard for proper middle age. There’s simply no excuse for not being in flared lounge pants and a supportive top. But the pantheon of elder females from my childhood was rather different.  These women were sturdy and slow moving. I recall their bodies as huge monoliths of compressed flesh. They could take one of today’s cougars  down with a hairgrip shiv and make it look like a tanning bed accident all while stretching the roast for one more supper.  I would very much  like to see our culture re-aquaint itself with that rarely-tapped minority, the battle-axe.

How did women earn that epithet?

Imagine such a tool, heavy and sharp, nicked along its blade by the occasional resistant femur, its handle stained by all the ways a person can leak. It’s aesthetic value is entirely based on it’s ability to illustrate a narrative, one of survival, loss, utility and despair.

Meno-porns, January.

Where, oh where,  is the beefcake calendar for the hormonally sputtering, exhaustipated masses?

“There is nothing hotter than a woman enjoying a monte christo sandwich”

Is it too much to ask for a simple  wall calendar of Gerard Butler with his shirt off, pointing towards a shoe sale and holding out a nice sherry trifle?

There is only one Gerard Butler calendar out there and it’s fully shirted. Also, the pictures are kind of grey and grainy, and he looks a bit haunted, like they were taken by paparazzi.

for you…

Now, granted, if  I ever did get a glimpse of said Gerard Butler, he’s  probably going to be looking fairly cornered and reluctant, but that’s not the point. I just want a big glossy beefcake with a side of nipular smirkage. for January.

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