Changing Tracks

Okay.

I tried to be nice. I really did. I gave three whole posts about what's good in cinema because there are things in cinema to be happy about. Just as there are good things in literature, music, games, the whole of entertainment to be happy about, but it feels forced. I feel a sham and irresponsible to my (potential) reading public.

So, I'm taking a break for a day or two to figure out what the hell direction I'm going (not a serious break mind you, this is a blog, not the fucking TIME). I still am Hopefully Entertained, but I will nitpick and make points and sweeping generalizations.

Like for Indiana Jones latest escapade, it doesn't need to be said, but you gotta say it- ALIENS. Holy shit, ALIENS. And not the kind that mow your lawn for two bucks under minimum wage.

And Sex and the City I never saw all the way through. I just saw bits and pieces over a period of several weeks and have thus assembled an opinion from spare change and my favorite bit? The actress with the best faces shits her pants! Basic humor folks. The rest of the movie is good, if confusing- I'm not a big fan of shoes, dresses and fashion "names." Do I look fucking awesome in this? Yes. Does it cost much? No. By the craziness surrounding me, we have a winner!

That's about the problem I had with it which is why I never watched the show in the first place. It was like talking down to you if you weren't in New York and wearing Prada's latest explosion of "taste." I'm sorry, but a stitched bag is a stitched bag and it doesn't matter if it was made by a French douchebag who sits front row at a show where pissy men and women strut up and down a running board in clothes I'd wear to a circus. As a performer.

As for Indy? Just old. He's farty, the crew that made him initially is farty, just let him age gracefully and hand off the torch to the eunich Shyuh LeBuff (seriously, did you see the amount of testicular torture he endured? Insanity).

It's like lately all the baby boomers are making a last go at being cool and bad-ass. We are their children and suddenly we're their friends and they can surf with us, or fight the Commies with us, or whatever they want. Sixty is the new thirty. What? I thought sixty was when you took up writing in a blog and complaining about these damn kids and their rap music.

I apparently didn't get the memo.

Not that I should talk. I'm sure when I roll well past over the hill, I'll be making bids for my once nubile, non-saggy self and be doing things someone my age shouldn't. It's part of the human experience, right?

I just hope I'll have the strength of will to be doing it in dignity like such big names as (and required butt-kissing goes here) Terry Pratchett and George Carlin, to whom this post is dedicated and if you can't tell by the tone, inspired.

So, as my track hops for the eighth time, I wind down and decide that the next post should be as honest because I want to be entertained and I will always find something that struck my fancy, but I shouldn't hide the gallons of crap I had to sift through to get the nugget of gold. Where's the fun in that?