Burn!

Hubby has a new show he enjoys. Burn Notice on USA. Hubby says he likes the home-improvement tips (yuk yuk). I think he’s OK with the T&A aspect of a show based in Miami, too. Lots of bikinis. (That was the only thing that kept him watching that stooopid show with David Caruso.) (But of course he wouldn’t admit that to me.) It’s James Bond with snark. I have to admit, I liked it, too. Not as much as the Hubby did, but I liked it.

So we’re sitting on the couch, chuckling at the Ocean’s 13-esque dialogue of Jeffrey Donovan (telling the guy whose car he just jacked that he has to get the visor fixed because it’s ‘really annoying.’ *smirk*) when hubby laments that Burn Notice is a summer fill-in show. As is his other favorite show, Eureka. As is one of my favorite shows, The 4400. And Monk. And Psych. And Dead Zone.

So what does this say about us as people? Hubby and I apparently are summer fill-in kind of people. Respectable enough, but never going to make it to mainstream prime-time. And we seem to really like USA Network and the SciFi Channel. And our young kids know who Stan Lee is. And Gene Rodenberry. Before too long they’re going to know who Robert Heinlein is (actually, Eldest Son already does, as he’s perused some of the juviniles).

When people who don’t know us well learn these facts about us, they seem surprised. Not by Hubby, of course, as he’s always been a bit of a geek (occupationally), and so people somehow expect an interest in speculative entertainment from him. From me, though? The HausFrau? I drive a mini-van and boor people to tears with mundane anecdotes about my family. Who would think that my favorite stories are those with aliens or set in alternate universes? That I can quote most of the Star Trek movies (I veer away from I and V, and try to avoid IV)? That many (OK, most) of my political, social, and religious opinions have been infuenced by Asimov, Atwood, Bradbury, Bradley, Card, Clarke, Dick, Heinlein, Herbert, LeGuin, Verne, and Wells? My good friends know this about me, and generally smile indulgently when I go off on a tangent about books, authors, and the state of current literature, with a look that suggests they’re about to pat me on the head and tell me everything will be OK. But when an acquaintance drops a comment about space opera while looking at a magazine ad, and I respond with a quip about David Weber and ‘missles screaming through the void,’ the look on their face is full-on shock.

I guess we haven’t moved as far from the stereotypes as I thought. I must be a pimply-faced, Spock-ears wearing, no girl kissing dweeb in another life.

Along those lines, Ursula LeGuin wrote this about genre fiction. I was choking with laughter. Way to go Ursula!

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