Prophecies of the One Eyed Anti-Christ...

I'm suffering insomnia again.

Which is why I'm awake at 1 AM, when I'd much rather be sleeping soundly, dreaming profound and perhaps sexy dreams.

Eh, who am I kidding? My dreams are never profound, they're just bizarre.

Thank Hohenheim for TVland. At least I can watch hours upon hours of 3rd Rock From the Sun. Sitcoms have run their course and are now a thing of the past, in my opinion. And clearly in the opinion of TVland, which airs only shows from days long gone.

But I can't think of a single current sitcom that's clever, interesting, or worth watching. Scrubs, while a half hour comedy, strikes me as something different. And evolved form of sitcom, a dramedy, if you will. I remember when sitcoms ruled the nighttime airwaves, before the hour long drama took over. (Not that I'm entirely complaining, I do enjoy a number of those hour long dramas.)

But it brings me to the burning question on my mind tonight:

What's your favorite sitcom from days gone by?

I have many I remember with fondness. Just Shoot Me, for reasons other than Laura San Giacomo's spectacular bosom. Frasier. Mad About You. Wings. Cheers. And of course my current viewing selection, 3rd Rock From the Sun. I can't even really pinpoint why I enjoy them so much, just that they always make me laugh.

Writer's Block: Angels and Devils in the Subway

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I've never done one of these before, but seeing this pop up on my Flist reminded me of one of the most surreal encounters of my life.

I was out with someone in Boston on the T, our subway/public train service. It was late at night and we were coming back from Harvard Square. I can't even remember who I was with or when this happened, but I do remember we were talking about comic books. Not that this narrows it down.

All of a sudden, a tall, gangly man with a wool hat and impressive stubble sits next to me and reaches for my hands. He's one of those common train crazies, all burning eyes and boozy breath and clothes that have seen better days. He's young, younger than most, but still a member of that degenerate class. And he takes my hands and he stares into my eyes so very intensely that I don't immediately jerk away.

"You're right," is what he says to me, and I don't understand. But I remember these pieces of what he said so clearly. "You're always right because you're like me. The devil birthed me but God raised me and for my soul they fought inside the clock tower where I trapped my body. They fought with cards and lies and thunderbolts. They're always fighting and I don't want any of it. I don't want to end the world. He's going to win and then I'll belong to him, and so will you."

At this point I have disengaged myself physically and our stop has come up alone the train line. He doesn't seem to notice at first, as I stand up, but as I am heading to the door, he is staring again. Suddenly, he lunges forward, grabbing the bars of the train and hanging his body between them like some sort of acrobat.

"Evil's only what you make it!" he yells as we exit the train.