I get a sick joy out of proofreading the list of submissions for the Best Foreign Language Film Oscars for our film programme. It’s one of the few things that the boss just cuts and pastes from a trade publication, trusting me to find out where all the accents on the titles and directors’ names go (because trade publications don’t really give a shit).

It’s satisfying in ways I can’t really explain properly; it’s just the right kind of bullshitty nonsense that pleases my trivial brain.

Relatedly, I am still very slowly making my way through ‘The West Wing’ and, man, occasionally shit sticks out like crazy — beyond the often exhausting patriotism and generalised mild mawkishness (I am fucking LOVING Abby Bartlett, though).

The Thai ambassador in a recent episode was named Mr. Sumatra. His last name is a place that is sorta near Thailand. It’s equivalent to having a lone Kiwi character named Mr. Tasmania. Lazy, silly, and kinda dumb.

Still watching though. Sometimes it’s compelling, sometimes I’m doing dishes in the other room.


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