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News flash, marketing guys: a training school that teaches business, secretarial skills, mechanics, etc, is not, by definition, an ACADEMY. An ACADEMY teaches ACADEMICS. As in, useless things. Like the Arts. You are not an ACADEMY. So STOP CALLING YOURSELF ONE.

[/end anti-capitalist anti-materialist fear-over-society's-disregard-for-her-chosen-field-fuelled rage]

Today's entire Mystery Lit was pretty much focused on the fact that Watson and Holmes were one of English literature's earliest slash couples. The schools of thought were split between the girls, who saw Holmes as pathos and inept, with Watson as his only friend (explaining his drug use), and the boys (who are outnumbered 5:18), who posited that given the proper stimulus, "Holmes could totally go Hannibal Lector". Mostly this was mixed. (Know who else could totally go Hannibal Lector? Greg Sanders. Shut up. You know I'm right.) Then there was a ten-minute interlude as the instructor said how she thought that was Kirk and Spock, but I and the Trekkie Girl (which is what I'll call her as at the moment I can't remember her name) pointed out that while they were the first in fic as a recognized phenomenon with a name and everything, Watson and Holmes were earlier, pre-computers, even. I was amazed and nerdily delighted that the term "slash" has made its way into popular (read: non-internet) culture. There was then a further interlude as we discussed how weird it is that the predominantly female viewing audience of mystery-drama-type (and sci-fi-drama-type) shows tend to slash more than the male minority. Apparently women watch more TV than men. Relatively smart TV, anyway. Colour me astonished.

(Sometimes I love school. ^.^)

Speaking of CSI, tonight's episode was BEYOND traumatising. Usually the gore and psychological drama doesn't phase me much. The body parts, the blood pools, the maggots, the open torsos during autopsy, great, whatever, I'm fine. In fact to this date the only CSI moment that's ever icked me out was the time that rat came out of the supermodel's mouth.



Tonight, however, the episode was half scenes of Nick buried in a plexiglas coffin, progressing from initial panic to hallucinations to seizures to screaming and I SPENT TWO HOURS CURLED UP ON MY COUCH CRINGING. I have never had nightmares from CSI before, but I might tonight. What is this new obsession crime dramas have with burying people alive? It'd be cool if they could find a new thing, now. *TWITCH*

Also there was a part where Nick was recording a suicide note (don't panic, he didn't) into a microcassette recorder, and Grissom was watching via the webcam the kidnapper thoughtfully installed in the coffin, and he said something that looked important, but as the kidnapper neglected to also install a microphone, and I don't read lips nearly as well as Grissom does, I don't know what he said. So now there's that on top of the sympathetic claustrophobia.

Dead Like Me is coming to Showcase. I am told that I am excited. All right, then.

Early class tomorrow, should go to sleep. 'Night, all.

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reeciebastion
chandri
Chandri MacLeod
Fantasi.net

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