One of Hollywood's most powerful lesbians

Fragment:
"Friday night, and that's simply not a sky. It's not even the dreadful sodium glare of a cloud coffin. There's no clouds. There's no sky. There's not even nothing. It looks like an infinite cyst."

I then spent Saturday morning inexplicably incandescent over the consuming idiocy of the statement "what you don't know, can't hurt you" which, even by proverbial standards, is nonsense.
Saturday afternoon, more explicably, I headed along to the Ward clearance sale; thank you fifilabelle and wardytron for hosting, and for Stuff. I was one of the earlier departures from the Barn; falling asleep and being written on felt imminent and what's more, I was even beginning to annoy myself.

In other news: there's a place in Cornwall called Ventongimps.

The weekend's cultural consumption

Bowfinger: Easy as it is to forget these days, Steve Martin and Eddie Murphy are both gifted comic actors when they have the right material and a director who keeps them on a tight lead.

Cinnabar: Rogue Trooper usually leaves me cold. I didn't grow up with war comics, so seeing them retooled with cooler tech for an SF setting doesn't press the same atavistic buttons. And John Smith sometimes loses me by veering off into interminable psychological w@nk. But when you anchor the latter with the former, you simultaneously elevate the former and the result is pretty damn impressive.

Flash Gordon: I still can't believe they let us watch this film, repeatedly, as children. It explains so much.

Con Air: The Hollywood blockbuster in its purest form. Many explosions. A rubbish lead. A far more talented actor slumming it as the lead. Several other talented actors slumming it in character parts. Nonsensical motivations. A long-suffering wife and child. An authority figure who insists, inappropriately and inflexibly, on doing everything by the book. But above all, MANY EXPLOSIONS.
Bloody good fun but thank heavens they didn't make a sequel.