True Blood worth watching again? Surely not?

There is no easy way to say this. I hated seasons three and especially four of the HBO television series True Blood. In fact, the only reason I even bothered with season five can be summed up with the name Anna Paquin. I am not exaggerating when I say that Anna is in a rare class of actor (along with the like of Sir Ian McKellen, Sir Patrick Stuart, and Michael Fassbender) whom I could watch sitting in a plain chair against a white background, reading the ‘phone book.

Metallicrap.

One friend I have on World Of Warcraft and I have very little in common, but we both love the 1980s British television show The Young Ones. Every episode has something to recommend it. One of the less-quoted jokes from the episode Nasty has Alexei Sayle facing the camera and going into a spiel about how since he has been appearing on television, his Marxist fellows have been accusing him of selling out, making him march at the back at demonstrations, and so forth.

Yes, I am calling you a retard. Live with it.

Before I get to the meat of the matter, I want to tell you about one of my favourite authors, George Orwell. Or Eric Arthur Blair as he was known to people around his home. Eric‘s biggest talent other than creating stories that were equally frustrating and compelling to read was writing about the cause-effect between how people behave and what they are taught to believe about themselves. His masterful way of writing is reflected in the fact that this relationship I have spoken of is indeed equally demonstrable no matter what order you write it in.

A song I cannot help listening to in spite of how annoying it is

I will admit to this up front. When I find songs that I like and have certain qualities, I listen to them repeatedly. As in I will play them back and forth over and over until I get to a point where most people would start screaming for it to stop. One individual made a joke tape that was, and was titled, literally Ninety Minutes Of Non-Stop Laughter. As in for ninety minutes, the tape was a collection of sampled laughter. I think there were eight distinct samples, each set to their own rhythm, but who else but me could listen to that for ninety minutes?

Person-firsters get the kick in the balls of a lifetime.

I was on my way to a court hearing today (Wednesday 17 of July) when one of my Fudgebook friends sent me a link in a message. The link pointed me to this document by Lisa Egan. I wish to comment about it some, but first, I would like anyone who is reading this document but has not read that one to go and read that one. Take your time, I do not mind waiting for your attention, because what Lisa has written at that site is one of the best things I have read in a long time.

More about that bloody verdict.

Yeah, I know. I have been wanting to focus-shift this journal for an amazingly long time, from things that bother me to things that have been keeping me going in spite of how much the rest bothers me. Unfortunately, with the way things have been both in the outside world and on a personal level, this has not proven quite possible.

The verdict (no, not that one).

Before we begin, let me tell you something. I am not going to pretty up what I have to say with political correctness or blanks. This is because I want to properly express my impression of the mindset behind the violent criminal act I am speculating about. If this bothers you, go elsewhere, please.

Publicised trials are a funny thing. In spits and spats, the public are doused in grim, puzzling, or even stupid details from the trial’s progress. And after months or even years, a verdict is handed down that is pored over for years afterwards, with people speculating on what led to the result.