Feeling under the weather this week prompted me to plow through a few lingering Netflix selections, hence my cozy night in with March of the Penguins. Now, I realize that I’m five years late to the punch on this one, just as it will likely be 2016 before the next bout of the stomach flu prompts me to watch Avatar, but did anyone else feel like they were watching softcore avian porn? No? Just me then? Okay, not the first time. Could have been lack of nitrates or oversaturation of thinking, writing and talking about sex, but damn those suits were getting it on. It wasn’t just the bend over birdie moves that blurred genre lines, it was the necking scenes set to romantic notes, and Morgan Freeman assuredly lulling me to believe that these guins, with their sort-of monogamy and scraps over eligible bachelors, are just like us, wink-nudge. Good thing old Morg could anthropomorphize slugs and I’d buy what he’s selling.
Anyhoo, since this blog isn’t really going anywhere, I’m off to my next in cue: The Eleventh Hour. Surely this one can’t be erotic. Then again, maybe Leo can take me there.