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.
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