Those of you who know me know that I am a big Sci. Fi. freak. Yes, I like my reading and viewing to be as far divorced from reality as possible. Christmas night Steve was flipping through the channels when he came across a Buffy the Vampire Slayer marathon. We hit record and settled in to watch a couple of the episodes. The rest we are meeting out to last at least until the new TV season begins.
Tonight was Graduation. Buffy has put Faith in the hospital with a coma, Angel has survived poisoning by feasting on Buffy's blood, and the mayor (who is germaphobic, drinks milk and doesn't swear) gives a good bit of his speech at high school graduation before transforming into an enormous, flesh-eating monster. Best of all is Buffy and Giles blow up the mayor/monster by blowing up Sunnyvale high. Ye who are not devotees, mock not – this is High Art.
Yes, Buffy, you saved us, not from blood-sucking vampires and immortal fiends but from our boredom, our lethargy (well, we're still sitting like blobs in front of the TV, but we're enthusiastic about it), our ennui. This is equal to Greek drama at its best: the pathos, the cultural references, the sly humor.
In my mind, will I ever be older (read "more mature") than 18, empowered and strong, slaying monsters with a flick of a spike-filled hand? No, I don't suppose I will.