The USA network captured pretty much my undivided attention this weekend with their epic (series? mini-series?) show, Into the West. Basically, a bunch of pioneers and a bunch of Lakota are born, fall in love, kill, and die. And lots of stuff happens along the way. It's sort of like Deadwood if it were rated G. Or at least PG. And it's directed by Steven Spielberg, so there are lots of emotional gazes, lots of big sweeping movements with the cameras and the music. And the Lakota have really fun names, such as "Loved by the Buffalo," "Thunder Heart Woman," and "Runs with Foxes." Of course, when a Virginian marries a Lakota woman and they have a daughter, her names is "My Great Light," which becomes "Margaret" around the white folk. Clever!
As the series moved along (3 two-hour episodes over the holiday weekend), my human, feline and canine roommates all got much more interesting names. Over the course of 72 hours, Ozzy was known as "Rolls in Grass," "Barks at Air," "Hogs the Bed," and "Trembles with Fear" (this last name was due to the fireworks, which, to him, apparently signify the end of days.).
Nanna was mostly "Runs with Toy," where "toy" was substituted with "ball," "duck," "moose," etc. At times, however, she became "Lover of No One," "Knee Licker," and "One Who Begs Incessantly."
Miru was known as "Sleeps on Laundry" and "Hunter of Postcards" (he's taken to carrying around pieces of mail at night, and screaming about it as if he'd just caught Osama bin Laden.).
Milhouse is now "Dances with Flies" and "Makes Great Stink." We'll leave that one alone.
Luckily for me, I referred to Max most of the weekend as "Brings me Beer" and "Friend of BBQ."
The whole situation was dangerously similar to that time that I kept referring to President Bush as President Bartlett. So much wishful thinking.