footballers wives
Tomorrow my PowerBook goes back to AppleCare for the fourth time in less than two years for yet another video-related issue. I’m about to have a seizure from looking at my effed-up screen, but to blog, I’ll suffer through it. Luckily I’m headed to Vegas for most of the time that Apple will have my laptop, but still the separation anxiety is frightening.
However, more disturbing than my bizarre attachment to my computer is my attraction to Footballers Wives on BBC. It’s not enough that I’m a crazed-Anglophile who watches too much Little Britain. Now I’m hooked on this fantastic show that is one part Playmakers and two parts primetime soap opera. Sure, people love DH, but like all good shows on America television, the British version came first, and they did it much better.
What is it about our culture that we can’t discover anything new? We couldn’t even discover the country - we had to steal it from someone else. We need to take everything and put our classless stamp on it. All we do is remake, revise, or regurgitate. Poorly.
