I have a tendency to channel flick. I am man therefore I flick. Rene Descartes said that before they even had Sky. And what I’m really looking for is ‘comfort tv’. Just 10 minutes of something I know and love. And my defaults are Kill Bill (yes, very comforting, in a very bloody way), A Knight’s Tale and the most comforting of all, Terminator 2. Perhaps its because I know them so well that it really is of no consequence which ‘bit’ happens to be on. Its irrelevant. I can pick them up wherever they may be. And leave them just as easily when I get shouted at.
Last night was Terminator 2. James Cameron’s finest movie. Certainly a zillion times better than Titanic which, even without that god-awful song, would never make my comfort zone. And it was the ‘best bit’. When the cops surround Cyberdine’s office and Arnie blows them all up. All of the them. Nice. Comforting.
Young John Connor is talking to Arnie about his ‘dad’. Who, as we know from Terminator 1, was a time-traveller who came back, impregnated the mum and fuckin’ died. Typical man. So John says to Arn: “yeah, wierd that my dad won’t be born for about 30 years”. And for some reason I’d never picked up on that line before. Even after 833 viewings.
Yet its profound. And the classic ‘time paradox’. In that ‘chicken and egg’ kind’a way. Because if John’s dad only came back from the future to protect that future John Connor, how could that older John Connor have even existed? The father came back from the future to save a man (his best friend, in fact) who couldn’t conceivably (sorry, sometimes it just happens) have been born until his visit back. Confused? Don’t be. Its just a chronological impossibility. But when such things enter the realms of ‘serious mind-fuck’, we call them time paradoxes.
Though there is a possible explanation. But as it involves worm-holes in space, 17-dimension maths and the square root of minus-1, I’ll spare both of us the aggro.
Germany go through on the worst penalty shoot-out of all time. Tonight its Iceland. Come on Iceland.
Happy sunny Sunday
A xxxx
Last nights penalty shoot out was the best ever. It was abolutely hilarious.
Zaza was in trouble right from the off; I mean being named after the cat (the sexy one so I am weirdly told) from Hector’s house was not a good start in our house which was full of San Miguel and Rioja and mates. But who was that prick who did the hand signal to the German goalie…”I’m gonna chip it right over you Mr shit-fer-brains” , and then sliced it past the post like a pussy.
I was nearly on the floor. Apoplectic. We rewound the all the pens several times; best tv in ages. So glad we are out and the pain is passing.
Good times.