In which a vanished film is applauded for having vanished.
Come on everybody! Let’s all get our new homegrown internal organs tattooed!
Wake us when the sequel’s over.
Be careful–or you might go backwards too! NOOOOOO!
Wherein it is written, on whatever it is they write it on in the web-o-sphere, that one could do worse than to watch the newest Zappa documentary.
I have seen the future, and it is the past.
And I may even have succeeded in doing so. Or possibly not. Or, on the other hand, I am on fire. Strange times.
Another great steps backstage.
In which with a certain morose ennui we muse upon what, lately, has been watched
Seems like a good time to talk about death.
In which Charles Willeford’s steamy Floridian art-noir is moved to Italy. Hm.
Another Python goes.
A list! A list! Hooray, a list!
An unlikely ending reveals the evil genius of the Sith.