I watched a couple episodes of Homicide last night. I liked it well enough, but it has the best example of bad neat television writing I can think of. There’s a thread where Yaphett Kotto asks the rook to find out who lights the candle that stands by the board with the bodies. The rook keeps an eye out all night, and Clark Johnson chips in. It seems no one knows, or those that do don’t say. Munch leaves to fuck his girlfriend, comes back and in the interim the candle has been snuffed and relit. Later it’s revealed that it’s munch who does it, and another person, figuring his supersittion couldn’t be the worst thing in the world, re-lit it for him, both keeping his secret, and keeping us safe.

That shit belongs on Doogie Houser, yo, it’s meretricious to the nth.

But, okay, here’s AWESOME. Driving around I ran across eight Delorians parked in the street! Why? No reason, cause it’s fun. Just randomly, eight Delorians, all with their doors open. Must be Graduation Day.







Where we’re going? We don’t need roads.