House ramblings
Not everything is about romantic relationships. I say that because anyone who knows me probably needs to hear that I understand that there are stories that aren't about necessarily about luv. Or lurve. But, really, all stories are about love, like all poems are actually about writing poetry. It's just that love doesn't necessarily mean 'shipping. Except here, it does.
I'm glad that's out of the way.
I'm late to House, but I have an excuse. It's a television program and it doesn't air on the International History Channel. (Which is not as pretentious as it sounds. The Discovery Channel? There's educational TV for you. The International History Channel tries as much as possible to be about sex and death.) Unlike manga, which I buy randomly, television shows only make it to my radar based on media hype and friends' recommendations. So I didn't even know House existed until it was halfway through its first season. And then all I knew was "Hugh Laurie" (yay!) as a "curmudgeonly doctor" (= not Bertie Wooster *sniffle*) in a medical drama (-12 points 'cause the world really needs another ER). For Hugh Laurie, I put a season pass for House, M.D. on my TiVo at number 16 and went on with my life not particularly concerned that something between 1 and 15 conflicted with its airtime.
Always in the background there were murmurs of House 'shipping. House and Cameron. House and Wilson. House and Cuddy. House and Chase. House and Foreman. House is a slut! Is that Vicodin or Viagra he's popping?
Then, in December-January, whatever I watch that conflicted with House went on hiatus and my TiVo started grabbing episode after episode for me. I watched, duly impressed by Hugh Laurie's accent, acting and sexiness. I hated the CGI with a passion (I blame you, CSI), and I was singularly unimpressed by the relationship stuff. The supporting characters seemed like faded cardboard cutouts -- especially Cameron, who is too beautiful to be a doctor (House says so) and too sensitive to sleep on peas. Their relationship was pastede on yay!
I was getting episodes out of order and irregularly, and one of them included the first Vogler episode. Here was opposition for House. I decided to rent the DVDs and ignore the CGI incursions into the human body because it DOESN'T LOOK LIKE THAT IN THERE. Don't be cutting yourself open expecting to see electrical sparks and platelets the size of frisbees, people.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Netflix doesn't do double-sided DVDs, so those of you who own season one might wonder why I watched six disks instead of 3. Corporate greed, my friends. Corporate greed.
So I'm watching my single-sided disks and enjoying Hugh Laurie and the baby with the conceptual grasp of rescue workers and ignoring Cameron's needs and then Love Hurts comes on and Wilson -- oh, Dead Poet boy, did it have to be you? -- gets me in the kneecap when he warns Cameron against breaking House's heart and House finishes me off when he pulls the corsage out of the refrigerator. "I think she likes lame."
*sigh* She's not the only one.
I'm glad that's out of the way.
I'm late to House, but I have an excuse. It's a television program and it doesn't air on the International History Channel. (Which is not as pretentious as it sounds. The Discovery Channel? There's educational TV for you. The International History Channel tries as much as possible to be about sex and death.) Unlike manga, which I buy randomly, television shows only make it to my radar based on media hype and friends' recommendations. So I didn't even know House existed until it was halfway through its first season. And then all I knew was "Hugh Laurie" (yay!) as a "curmudgeonly doctor" (= not Bertie Wooster *sniffle*) in a medical drama (-12 points 'cause the world really needs another ER). For Hugh Laurie, I put a season pass for House, M.D. on my TiVo at number 16 and went on with my life not particularly concerned that something between 1 and 15 conflicted with its airtime.
Always in the background there were murmurs of House 'shipping. House and Cameron. House and Wilson. House and Cuddy. House and Chase. House and Foreman. House is a slut! Is that Vicodin or Viagra he's popping?
Then, in December-January, whatever I watch that conflicted with House went on hiatus and my TiVo started grabbing episode after episode for me. I watched, duly impressed by Hugh Laurie's accent, acting and sexiness. I hated the CGI with a passion (I blame you, CSI), and I was singularly unimpressed by the relationship stuff. The supporting characters seemed like faded cardboard cutouts -- especially Cameron, who is too beautiful to be a doctor (House says so) and too sensitive to sleep on peas. Their relationship was pastede on yay!
I was getting episodes out of order and irregularly, and one of them included the first Vogler episode. Here was opposition for House. I decided to rent the DVDs and ignore the CGI incursions into the human body because it DOESN'T LOOK LIKE THAT IN THERE. Don't be cutting yourself open expecting to see electrical sparks and platelets the size of frisbees, people.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Netflix doesn't do double-sided DVDs, so those of you who own season one might wonder why I watched six disks instead of 3. Corporate greed, my friends. Corporate greed.
So I'm watching my single-sided disks and enjoying Hugh Laurie and the baby with the conceptual grasp of rescue workers and ignoring Cameron's needs and then Love Hurts comes on and Wilson -- oh, Dead Poet boy, did it have to be you? -- gets me in the kneecap when he warns Cameron against breaking House's heart and House finishes me off when he pulls the corsage out of the refrigerator. "I think she likes lame."
*sigh* She's not the only one.