Articles in “Strange Conversations”

While watching the wonderful adaptations of the Nero Wolfe mysteries with my parents:

MY FATHER: Who’s the British bloke?
ME: The brother-in-law.
MY FATHER: No, I mean is he someone significant?
ME: Yes. (Well, he was the murderer.)
MY FATHER: No, I mean is the actor someone significant.
ME: Oh. No.
MY FATHER: Finally, a straight answer.

What happens when Nick is web-surfing and I’m checking Facebook:

NICK: Matt Smith couldn’t be channelling Patrick Troughton harder if he tried.
ME: In what way?
NICK: Well, body language, mostly.
(Baffled pause)
ME: What are you looking at?
NICK: This.
ME: Oh. Oh!
NICK: Yes. That Matt Smith, not our Matt Smith.
ME: They should have thought of moments like this when they cast him.

Mind, it would help if we just called our Matt Smith “Matt,” but such is life.

I think I may have dialogued (for want of a better word) the wrong episode of Sanctuary, judging by what happened in episode two:

NICK: Wow, that was . . .
ME: I know. Did you see the bit where she admitted to voluntarily having Jack the Ripper’s baby?
NICK: Yeah. What’s a combination of “terrible” and “awesome”? Ter-some?
ME: That’s not really euphonious. I think we can settle for “craptacular.”
NICK: Yeah.
ME: You know, for a doctor, she had a really shaky grasp of genetics.
NICK: There was some mumbo [redacted] going on in that show.
ME: So she froze the foetus for one hundred years. What kind of cell degradation would happen in that time? I mean, you can’t even freeze chicken for more than three months.
NICK: Mumbo [redacted].
ME: And then she has Jack the Ripper’s baby because she thinks he’s gone for good by that point?
NICK: Yeah.
ME: That’s a crazy bad grasp of genetics right there.

(This, by the way, is Sanctuary, if you haven’t come across it yet.)

ME: Does it have The Cult in the soundtrack?
NICK: I don’t think so.
ME: They had it in the trailer.
NICK: I think they missed a trick in the show.

ME: Oh, CGI city!
NICK: Yes.
ME: Wait, is that part of the episode or a logo?
NICK: I don’t know.
ME: It’s not a good sign when you can’t tell the episode from the logo.

NICK: Does this hospital have an interrogation room?
ME: Maybe the police station has a gurney?

ME: Oh no, it’s Voldemort!
NICK: Yes!
ME: Wait, maybe it’s Peter Garrett.

HERO: Who are you?
NICK (speaking for Amanda Tapping): I’m Batman.

ME: Wait, we’re twenty-five minutes through, and nothing’s happened yet?
NICK: The pacing is a bit flabby.
ME: It’s hard to tell because nothing has happened yet.
NICK: Of course, the humourlessness doesn’t help.
ME: Well, maybe there’ll be some jokes when something happens.

NICK: I don’t think that hat’s doing Amanda Tapping any favours.
ME: I don’t think it would do anyone any favours. I think it’s trying to evoke something, but I don’t know what.
NICK: Vampire Hunter D, maybe?

NICK: Let’s just walk across this completely empty soundstage.
ME: Completely empty soundstage with grand staircases.
NICK: Yeah.
ME: It’s all a bit Skydivers, isn’t it? “Walk, walk, walk: we shall start the scene here.”

HERO: You’re a doctor of what, precisely?
HEROINE: The actual discipline depends on the specific patient.
NICK: What?
ME: What?

HERO (faced with a mermaid): How is this even possible?
NICK: CGI. Lots of CGI.

HERO: What is that?
HEROINE: His exact classification is less important than his actual existence.
NICK: What?
ME: What?

HEROINE: He’s been relatively isolated since I first treated him.
NICK: Oh, the dialogue is so ponderous.
ME: Yeah.
NICK: “Relatively isolated.” It’s so flabby.
ME: And also? Most of it doesn’t make sense.

HEROINE: I’d like to offer you a place here.
HERO: What, helping you catch monsters?
HEROINE: We prefer to call them “abnormals.”
NICK: Oh, yes—because that’s much better.

HEROINE: I need someone who can see the world as it really is.
HERO: I lock up criminals, not monsters.
HEROINE: And you can’t see the irony in that statement?
NICK: No. Because there isn’t any.

HEROINE (talking about a child with a tentacle growing out of his chest): Such abnormal children are often adopted by well-meaning immigrants.
ME: What?
NICK: What?

HEROINE: What frightens you more, Dr Zimmerman? That frightened boy down there . . .
NICK: Or his disgusting tentacle?
HEROINE: What do you see when you look at him?
NICK: Apart from his disgusting tentacle?

ME: Even the end-title music is humourless.
NICK: Yeah, though I don’t mind it.
ME: Why on earth not?

ME: I used the derogatory term deliberately there.
NICK: Yeah.
ME: To indicate that I thought the person’s argument was derogatory.
NICK: Yeah.
ME: Because I’m not prone to derogatory language.
NICK: Yeah.
(Pause)
NICK: Except about me.
ME: Yeah . . . that’s more descriptive than derogatory.

NICK: Oh, god, I’m so drunk.
ME: Really?
NICK: That Trippel is brutal.
ME: Honey, I don’t think—and this is just my opinion, you understand—I don’t think you should come into the living room, hug and kiss your girlfriend, declare she’s the “best girl in the world,” and then stagger off saying, “Oh god, I’m so drunk.”
NICK: Those were unrelated acts! Unrelated!

In which Nick experiments with advanced Wii Fit Boxing:

NICK: I think I tried it once before, and just completely freaked out.
ME: Well, you completely freaked out this time, too. And when you freak out, you just start punching wildly.
NICK: You have to admit, it’s a useful survival trait.
ME: I was about to argue exactly the opposite.
NICK: Really?

Nick exercises while watching Good Game on the TiVo.

NICK: Theme Park!
ME: Wasn’t it a good game?
NICK: No, because you couldn’t stop the little bastards from vomiting.
ME: Sorry?
NICK: They’d go on rides, and they’d go too fast, and then they’d vomit everywhere. And you had to hire garbage collectors, and . . . god.
ME: Okay, then.

Who says games are no substitute for real life?

ME: Okay, is everything packed up and ready?
NICK: Yep. We just need to get a green bag, then I can put in everything I’ve got out.
ME: So it’s not all packed up and ready.
NICK: Well, no.
ME: So do it now!
NICK: But I just need to hit a button!

ME: You’re Rogue Leader?

NICK: I am now!

ME: Did you promote yourself?

NICK: Well, I wanted to be in Rogue Squadron.

ME: Why?

NICK: Because that’s Wedge’s squadron after Star Wars.

ME: Yeah, if in doubt, shadow Wedge. You know he ain’t going down.

NICK: Exactly. Actually, he’s Rogue Leader. So, I’m covered both ways.

ME: Even after he totally wimped out of the attack on the original Death Star? They still promoted him? I suppose there was a lack of pilots after that debacle.

NICK: Survivors get the glory. Ones who don’t walk straight into Imperial fire are few and far between.

ME: Which surprises me, given that stormtroopers are notoriously lousy shots.

NICK: Tie Fighter pilots have much better aim.

ME: True. I guess they’re cloned from a batch with better hand-eye coordination.

NICK: The main problem for them is that Han and Luke are much better pilots.

ME: Maybe they switched batches? Maybe the stormtroopers are all excellent pilots?

NICK: I think we’re going to have to delve into the tie-in novels for more information.

ME: Well, you know how it is. You have these two billion clones, and you can’t tell the Emperor that you’re pretty sure you started labelling them the wrong colours halfway through. Next thing you know, your soldiers can’t shoot and your pilots can’t fly. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.

Trying to convince Nick that he really needs to put a shirt on before we go to the shops.

ME: Because while I can get away with it with a toddler, I really think with you being 33 . . .
(Long pause)
ME: . . . tomorrow.
NICK: I was going to say.
ME: It’s tomorrow, for goodness’ sake!
NICK: Stop stealing my youth!

Believe it or not, this conversation (over IM) started when Nick revealed he hadn’t told me that he already knew about the man who tried to pay his bills with a picture of a spider.

ME: Oh. Consider my bubble burst.

NICK: Oh! Sorry!

ME: All the joy is gone from life.

NICK: Bloody hell, that was easy. I wasn’t even trying.

ME: The world is turning gray around me . . .

NICK: Is it getting cold? So cold?

ME: Why’s everything going fuzzy? Oh, wait, I’m listening to Grant Lee Buffalo.

NICK: Ah! Well, there you go.

ME: You’re not my boyfriend! Who’s using your computer? I mean, his computer.

NICK: Sorry? What have I done? OMG?! Bananas!

ME: My own boyfriend wouldn’t taunt me like that. I know it for sure. He’s a gentle soul.

NICK: That’s true. Darn it, foiled again!

ME: Well, who are you, then?

NICK: I am the Dread Pirate Roberts.

ME: Which one?

NICK: Not the latest one. One of the earlier, less English ones.

ME: The latest one is Inigo Montoya.

NICK: Hmm. Not the one before last either, then.

ME: So not Inigo Montoya and not Westley?

NICK: Nope. The one before the one before the one before last.

ME: Hang on. How did the Dread Pirate Roberts get on my boyfriend’s Gmail account?

NICK: I scuttled his ship and took his passwords. He’s my cabin boy now. I shall probably kill him in the morning.

ME: He had a ship? He told me he was a web designer!

NICK: He told me he ran away to sea to find you a nice book to read.

ME: That doesn’t sound like him, at all.

NICK: I could tell he was lying. But about what, I could not tell.

ME: Are you sure that’s my boyfriend you’ve got as a cabin boy?

NICK: He is bald and wears glasses.

ME: So are many men who are replete with testosterone. Except for the glasses.

NICK: He said something about repleteness just before I defeated him in a duel.

ME: Oh. That’s definitely my boyfriend, then. Is he coming back for his birthday party?

NICK: I tire swiftly of him but his foolishness has put me out of the mood for killing. I shall release him to you this afternoon.

ME: Hang on—I know you! You’re Atlas! Atlas pretending to be Dread Pirate Roberts! Oh, the layers upon layers.

NICK: My cunning but overly complex plan is revealed! I must away with me to my space castle.

ME: Well, can you drop him off at Indooroopilly, if you’ve got your space castle? It saves me picking him up from work.

NICK: This baby doesn’t do reverse. Or left turns.

ME: Is a giant circuit of the Earth out of the question? He doesn’t have to be there for a couple of hours.

NICK: Can’t talk; just been boarded by Space Pirate Harlock.

ME: Right—watch out for the giant switchblade he keeps in the prow of his ship.

NICK: Yes, that did a number on my space-shrubbery.

WII FIT BALANCE BOARD: Good morning! Have you had your breakfast yet? Oh, Nick’s birthday is coming up, isn’t it? Have you given any thought to presents? Or maybe throwing him a surprise party?

And I thought my old TiVo’s habit of secretly recording evangelical television made it the most passive-aggressive piece of household equipment I’d ever owned . . .

While discussing my love for Method cleaning products and, particularly, their delicious-smelling wood polish:

ME: Man, the living room really does smell like warm heaven.
NICK: Well, that’s why there are so many Methodists.

In which Nick shows me a picture of the Doctor’s new companion Karen Gillan in a policeman’s uniform complete with miniskirt:

ME: Nicholas!
NICK: What? It’s a Sensorite belt!
ME: You were not looking at her belt.
(Pause)
NICK: That is a very short skirt.

For the record, she was also wearing stockings with seams.

(For the complete joke, see point six in Lawrence Miles’s Thirteen Cheering Thoughts for 2010, in the sidebar to his blog. But be warned: the first point is a bit of a spoiler if you haven’t yet seen the Doctor Who season five finale “End of Time.”)