One would expect a sad comeuppance after subjecting a visiting friend to the DVD entirity of Firefly. But said friend has kindly sent word to my far off cave of Joss Whedon's new interweb mini-opera of mythopoetic tragi-silliness, Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog.
And horrible is exactly what it ain't.
Surely you know this by now, but in case your cave is even more secluded than mine, I humbly pass the word along. (I guess its free online distribution is about to end . . . UPDATE: yes, as of 21 July there is no more free Dr. H.--now only available via iTunes. Part of a master plan that sees eventual DVD release for us ancient ones of the Luddite clan.)
And blather on how cool it is that Neal Patrick Harris, Nathan Fillion and Felicia Day bring forth this shining bit of funny to coax one from the ledge. Fellow Whedonverse fans will spot David Fury and Marti Noxon in there singing it once more with feeling.
As I'd just finished going through all five seasons of Angel (geeky, yes I am), Dr. Horrible was most welcome indeed. (And I hope it will drum up bidness for the forthcoming series, Dollhouse.)
And having now shilled so totally for the good doctor bad, I've re-earned my designation from another old friend: Joss Whedon's bitch. (Personalized t-shirt in the pipeline?)
Meanwhile in other fiction, I lent the merest of words to FABULON's recent Your Caption Here post. Many others added their own wicked spin to a great superbomba pic of teenage lassitude. My caption has won me an exploding tiara. Or a Arcanta CD. Or the trunk key from a '48 Hudson.
Who knows, who cares . . . I won. I won.
Gimme.
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