February 21, 2007
I’m afraid there’s not a
lot of selection on our menu this week. We did have a zesty chicken mole
prepared but some bits of concrete and ash got mixed into the sauce. Can I
interest you in traumatized taquitos and a side of paternity reveal
instead?
In a show where law
enforcement is rarely allowed to appear noble or even competent, it was
refreshing to watch the Quartermaines during the hostage and rescue
operations. Yes, all of the bedside conversations with Alan or his
unconscious body have been phenomenal but that’s not why I’m so impressed
with them. I’m impressed that not a single one of them tried to rush in
like idiots to save loved ones from the building. They actually let the
cops and rescue personnel do their jobs. Imagine that. The years of
Mobster Mania have done nothing but fill me with scorn every time a
character thinks they can do better than law enforcement. Even Luke comes
across badly with his attempts to break in on his own. Especially Luke,
because there was a point in his life, however brief, when he was elected
the mayor of Port Charles. The writers would like to forget that as a
fluke, but you can bet that, if Luke had encountered a crisis during his
political career, he wouldn’t have just told a gathered crowd to rush the
scene. The Quartermaines have acted like sane bystanders should in a
crisis. As dysfunctional as their inner workings are, at least they are
allowed to show some faith in the authorities. Thank you, Quartermaines,
for understanding that the heroes should be the men and women in uniform.
Am I supposed to think
Sonny and Carly should be together now that they’ve spent twelve hours
playing hostage? Because, honey, I somehow think it was more traumatic when
he shot her in the head. If this doesn’t become Sonny and Carly Redux #432,
then I don’t mind the acknowledgement of feelings. I truly believe Carly
has grown up this past year and is capable of moving on from Sonny, even if
she will always care about him. She just needs to take a tip from me and
make sure to live about 3000 miles away from her ex. Nothing works better
for avoiding temptation than distance! And as that would get Michael out of
Port Charles permanently, we’d all win. Seriously, the kid practically
screams “Send me to boarding school” every time he’s onscreen.
Aw, Dillon, we all speak
Spinelli now. Even if we wished we didn’t.
Jason Morgan should
never have product in his hair. The past two days in the elevator,
illuminated by the mysterious red light from nowhere, have made the man look
quite delicious and at least five years younger. Usually, he’s too beefcake
for my taste, but as a man contemplating fatherhood and sporting hat hair,
he’s tasty. And this is coming from a woman who never ever wants to bear
children.
Who are these bodies
that the rescuers are supposedly pulling out? Even Marty Farty made it out
okay! As far as I can tell, two or three gunmen might have died. Was there
another room full of hostages playing canasta that we never saw the whole
time?
I’m glad Mr. Craig made
his escape and that GH saved some bucks by using the same briefcase that
held the virus antidote this time last year. Anybody else willing to bet
that the writers don’t know what was in the briefcase either? It will
remain on the unsolved mysteries list with Mac’s disappearing accent and
Liz’ ability to make shirts fly off men’s chests.
We are working on some spectacular
desserts for this coming week—perfect for a romantic evening of post-trauma
relaxation. Perhaps you’d like to try the black forest cake filled with a
luscious layer of brandy-soaked cherries and whip cream so thick you could
hide a fugitive in it. Maxie’s already got her order in.
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