I watch too much tv

Last week’s Sleepy Hollow, as Ichabod is called in to talk Middle English to the veiny little boy from Roanoke (& like how annoying was that plotline anyway, idk it just bugged me like there is no mystery, the colonists joined the locals, that’s it?) and like someone is all ‘blahblah the patient” and Sexibod was like “He has a name” and I started laughing wildly because it was so, so what Elif Batuman was talking about, ahem, sorry this is gonna get long:

The premium on conciseness and concreteness made proper names a great value—so they came flying at you as if out of a tennis ball machine: Julia, Juliet, Viola, Violet, Rusty, Lefty, Carl, Carla, Carlton, Mamie, Sharee, Sharon, Rose of Sharon (a Native American), Hassan. [Batuman has a footnote here worth transcribing also, since I’m giving in to my tangential impulses: The Best American anthologies of 2004 and 2005 each included one short story involving the Islamic world, each with a character called Hassan.] Each name betrayed a secret calculation, a weighing of plausibility against precision: on the one hand, John Briggs and John Hillman… on the other, Sybil Mildred Clemm Legrand Pascal, who invites the reader to call her Miss Sibby. On the one hand, the cat called King Spanky;  on the other, the cat called Cat. In either case, the result somehow seemed false, contrived—unlike Tolstoy’s double Alexeis, and unlike Chekhov’s characters, many of whom didn’t have names at all.  In “Lady with a Lapdog,” Gurov’s wife, Anna’s husband, Gurov’s crony at the club, even the lapdog, are all nameless. No contemporary American short-story writer would have had the stamina not to name that dog. They were too caught up trying to bootstrap from a proper name to a meaningful individual essence—like the “compassionate” TV doctor who informs her colleagues: “She has a name.” Batuman, 20

ok sorry sorry sorry I just love Elif.

moment 637575333:


I love this show so much and like why!  Why are you people doing this!

This episode started with Sherlock getting a call from a dominatrix, who greeted Sherlock andthe police in her sexy dom suit; apparently she navigates through the world in latex to save the bother of changing at clients houses or hotels.  Nevermind the bother of navigating the world in latex and a corset. 

Additionally, the whole dominatrix detail was so strained!  Who lets themselves in to a new clients house when no one answers the door? Why was it necessary to call a dominatrix to discover the body, why wasn’t the effort of getting a very large man into a latex suit not humiliation enough? What about the dominatrix and the waste of her time for free? not to mention no one wants to deal with the police you tremendous jerk, even if her career is legal.  Sherlock and Watson both made self-congratulatory/snide little comments that are escaping me at the present moment, nbd really but the equivalent of a vicious little hangnail that just won’t go away.

What did go away was the dominatrix once she’d served her purpose, to re-establish Sherlock’s edgy sexxii cred.



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