M*A*S*H* remains, to this day, some thrirty years after it first aired, one of television's finest series. I've had my TV on for the last few hours, despite having been disappointed by Buffy's pre-emting by a hockey game. Most of game three of the World Series past by in a haze as I hung out with the new upstairs neighbour, Greg. An A&E biography of Caligula made vaguely interesting background noise (with lots of lovely Roman and Neoclassical art), though they left out some of the more debatable and ghastly details. But I wasn't talking about Caligula, I was talking about M*A*S*H*.

I've seen every episode, I think, thanks to syndication, but I never cease to be moved. I tuned in for the last eight minutes of the episode when Colonal Henry Blake is recalled to the USA, and of course, dies as his plane is shot down over the sea. When Radar comes into the surgery and holds himself up against a rack, grief-stricken, I am already crying. "Radar, put on a mask." He stoops over the rack and touches his face, and the viewer already knows what he's going to say. Blake is dead, it's impossible, but he is. The operating room can't shut down, there are lives to save, but the doctors and nurses keenly feel their pain. The sorrow is palpable. God, they just don't make poignant shows, which also happen to be funny as Hell, like that anymore.

Wow, I think I just stumbled on a 'late night' movie on City TV. This means that it's either a horrible thriller, or a ghastly soft-core. Oh, look, a dead body floating in a boat wreck. Damn, it's the former. Oh well. It deserves at least ten minutes of my time. Hm, not even.

Ahhh, the hallmarks of a movie from the mid-eighties: fake paint splattered silk shirts and gratuitous exercise machine moments. Yeesh. And both in the same thirty seconds. Throw in a headband, a palm tree, and a bad premise such as a school reunion, and BOOM ! Instant crap gratification. Quite the come-down after M*A*S*H*. Oh, and look what's on TLC: some lame show about ... Poe? Horror? I'm not sure, but it featured a dominatrix in truly campy pvc. Her dungeon wasn't my fear, but her fashion sence might kill me. Hm, good stuff.

Oh, and on an unrelated sidenote, I'd like to say that Justin appologised, if you were wondering.