The trouble with time travel is, apparently, you can’t cross your own timeline without ripping giant hole in the fabric of space and time. This means that you can’t go back, say, three weeks and warn yourself that your current course of action is a horrible waste of time. This means that we have to try to stop ourselves before we regret our actions, with only the myopic help of foresight and whatever insight history can give us into frequently repeated patterns.
To that end, they say that the first step to solving a problem is admitting that you have a one in the first place. So, here it is: I have a problem. I have three wonderful weeks of vacation to do almost anything I please with, aside from a few meager hours of work-study and volunteer work. I could read the collected works of Shakespeare again. Write a book. Practice my meager skills on the guitar. But, sadly, I think it highly unlikely that I will find much strength of will to do anything but knit and watch campy British sci-fi television shows.
Since winter break started, I have knit two hats (here and here), a pair of fingerless gloves (here), a carrying case for my netbook (my own design, no pattern), and a pair of earwarmers (here, to go under the second hat, which worked up too loose to actually be warm). My only chance for hope, I think, is that my yarn basket is getting woefully close to empty and I’m a little scared of shopping for yarn. Maybe, when my fingers get bored, my mind won’t be nearly as entertained by the shows.
I hope that’s how it will go, at least, because the television seems unlikely to run out. That’s the great thing about Netflix. You’re sitting around, slightly despondent because you’ve devoured every episode of Torchwood that’s available online, and the happy little recommendation box at the top says, “Hallo, sorry to bother, but I couldn’t help but notice that you really seemed to enjoy Torchwood. Have you seen all of Doctor Who? I’ve got a half dozen seasons ready to go, if you’d like.” And sadly, I do like.
Before you take my addiction to Doctor Who, spin-offs, and shows of similar ilk as a recommendation, let me say this is my defense: I have absolutely no taste. None whatsoever. If you take my advice about what’s good to watch, I promise you that you will spend vast amounts of time wishing you could get those hours of your life back. But you can’t, they’re gone, so just don’t say I didn’t warn you.
You don’t believe me? Fine then—a taste of the awards that would need to be invented to appropriately honor the shows I’ve been watching (and loving):
The Paradox Medal: To Doctor Who, for the 3-part Season 3 finale which, comprising a full 21.4% of the entire season, is at once both the very best and the very worst bit of television I have ever seen.
The Diversity Medal: To Torchwood, and especially Captain Jack Harkness, for complete openness in exploring sensuality regardless of gender, creed, or alien-ness.
The Creative Murder Methods Medal: To the weeping angels: “They’re the only psychopathic race in the universe to kill you nicely. They just zap you into the past and let you live to death.” (From, what else? Doctor Who.)
And mercifully last for now (and certainly not least)…
The Dalek Medal: To Doctor Who for the most relentless creativity in getting yet another use out of expensive props (seriously, they must have been made of solid gold) by finding a way to bring back and re-exterminate various races, enemies, and characters that have been previously been made extinct or trapped in impossibly inescapable circumstances. Several times.
Yes, I do have a problem, I know. But I swear, just two more seasons of Doctor Who and I’m done. Really–I mean it this time.