When I was in eleventh grade, my Writer’s Craft teacher referred to Cats as a “McMusical.” By this, she meant that it relied for its entire appeal on the work done by someone else — T. S. Eliot and his Possum’s Book of Practical Cats.
The weird thing is, normally I’m a subtitle kind of gal. I don’t like listening to TV at high volumes. And some shows, like The Wire, just make a whole lot more sense when I can see names spelled out or hear what mumblers are saying in the background. In fact,…
Decisions, decisions. If you call the new set of guidelines you came up with for yourself your philosophy, you sound like Charlie Brown’s little sister. If you call it a manifesto, you sound like Marx. For lack of a better word, since the resolutions I’ve put together are (I hope)…
(But first, Happy Thanksgiving, everyone, and happy birthday, Banana Boy! (Hey, you don’t like your real name used on the Internet, so be grateful I didn’t pick the more embarrassing of your childhood nicknames…))