Yesterday at work, my boss was going on and on about all the fun she used to have on May Day when she was a kid. And yet, in my mind as I was listening to her, I kept thinking of The Wicker Man.

The original, of course. The Robin Hardy classic of fuck up wonderfully weird cinema, not the Neil LaBute/Nic Cage train wreck.

Clearly, there is something very wrong with me.

In other news: tonight is the antepenultimate episode of Joss Whedon’s Dollhouse (in it’s television broadcast format, though there will be an epilogue episode apparently on the DVD). Having stuck with this show this whole mini season that it’s been airing out of respect and loyalty to Mr. Whedon, I have to say that the show has slowly spread the wings of what it’s capable of, to give you just a taste of it’s potential, but has clearly made no great strides to reach said potential or full capacity.

The show so far plays out like a classic sci fi novel, but only makes minor stabs at tackling the notion of identity for hire and thankfully, the idea of sexual passengers that Joss played up for controversy’s sake in early interviews didn’t materialize too much. This is vastly better television than you get most other nights of the week on any other channel, so I’d say enjoy it while you can, but that’s not going to happen. Instead I’ll just suggest you pick up the DVD set in a few months.