Wake us when the sequel’s over.
The sexiest lobster you’ll ever eat. Or, at least, that seems like a safe bet.
Be careful–or you might go backwards too! NOOOOOO!
I am ready to leave the house, please.
If there’s one thing this past year has taught me, it’s to put my money on the disaster coming out on top.
I am reminded of why Soderbergh is among my favorite directors, and perhaps my favorite living director.
Grab a meat pie and pint of bitter and let’s watch a fuckton of spy films.
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
In which Charles Willeford’s steamy Floridian art-noir is moved to Italy. Hm.
Another Python goes.