I don't think I mentioned that our magical TV suddenly lost its mojo a month or so back, and we no longer receive the signals of whatever On Demand programming our neighbors are currently tuned into. So we missed the season finale of Mad Men and had just enough of a taste of True Blood to get interested. Sigh. (Also, no more bad p0rn. Taking the bitter with the sweet.)
Which means that now our choices for TV watching are now pretty thin -- between Bravo, TBS, MSNBC, Universal HD and the traditional networks, one can barely scrape together a watchable few hours, and that's with Rachel Maddow in the plus column. Thank god Top Chef is back, because there are only so many Real Housewives of Atlanta reruns I can take in my tenuous condition.
Speaking of my tenuous condition, the Universal HD channel is proving to be surprisingly therapeutic. It seems to be Cheesy 1990s Psycho-Sexual B-Movie week, and it's amazing how relatively sane one feels compared with Linda Fiorentino's psychologist who moonlights as a prostitute, or Michael Douglas's cop who screws potential psychopathic killers.
All I need now is Glenn Close boiling bunnies and a FDA application for off-label use of Cheesy 1990s Psycho-Sexual B-Movies and I'll be set for life.