(no subject)

Watched the first Randall and Hopkirk episode, "My Late Lamented Friend and Partner." Much as I remembered it, except of course in color. Mike Pratt, you were fucking brilliant.

Everybody smokes. Everybody. Marty's last act on this earth is to light up a fucking cigarette. Jeff's one-room flat must reek of Galoises, and he probably uses that enormous hookah for tobacco rather than weed. I know most of you aren't old enough to remember, but there was a time when most adults (it seemed like) smoked, everywhere and all the time. At home. At work. Restaurants were all-smoking. It was unusual for someone to ask before lighting up. Little kids made ashtrays in crafts class. I was the only person in a family of seven that didn't indulge.

But Ann, you ask, didn't everything and everyone smell bad? All the time?

And I say, Yes, little friend. It fucking reeked. I hope you never experience the horror of suddenly coming face to face with a full ashtray, or being in a grocery store when somebody whips out a pipe. 'Cause, gross!

Anyway. Jeff Randall's apartment cracks my shit up. He's all into Indian mysticism, with dancin' Shiva posters, little elephant statues, saffron yellow jammies (bottoms only 'cause he's manly), and sitar records. The walls and fabrics are red. It looks like something Hildy would do on Trading Spaces. It's also a reminder that Sergeant Pepper was all of two years old when this show was made, and the Beatles were still a going concern, and real men wore paisley. They did. Shut up.

Marty's suit is an alarming biscuit color, but I can't tell if it's the DVD's fault or my TV skews orange.

And Ronald Lacey as the Hippie.

(no subject)

Whee! I get to meet cocoajava!