(no subject)
Jul. 14th, 2003 06:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wickedfleaI don't think I've ever had any particular hankering to go to Louisville, KY. But I've got one now.
Speaking of the Coen brothers movies, I finished The Man Who Wasn't There last night. I'm not sure. I think I give it 4 stars out of 5. The cinematography was incredible and the performances were amazing (esp. my man Billy Bob), but it somehow fell a tad short of the Coens' usual level. I think it was the plot--it didn't keep me that interested. Like I said, the performances and the freaking camerawork (every shot is a work of art) pretty much made up for what the plot lacked, but it still was just a little off. But I should watch it again. The first time I saw Lebowski I thought it was very good but kind of . . . I dunno, too lighthearted or something to be a really great movie, and now it's probably my favorite Coen movie.
For some inexplicable reason I watched Bull Durham this weekend, and I'll never get those two hours of my life back. Actually it wasn't terrible, just pedestrian. I'd heard it was one of the better baseball movies, though, so in a weak moment I put it on my Netflix queue. The worst part was the fake-ass, so-Southern-they-drip-gravy accents. People don't fucking talk that way! Or maybe a very few do, but there's never more than one in a group. Half the people in this movie sounded like Elly Mae Clampett. That kind of thing bugs the nuts off me. I mean, I'm not going to say there's no such thing as a Southern accent (actually there are several different ones), but . . . gah. You know whut ah mean, don't che sweetie pie? Shorrrre ye do.
It's Hunter S. Thompson's birthday this weekend. Dance a jig.
I hate people on mailing lists who think they have to respond to EVERY POINT in EVERY POST. And it's really bad when you have three or four of those on the same list. I'm gonna have to get off this Crispin Glover list--all I do is delete, delete, delete. And it's come out of nowhere; there used to be about three posts per month, and now there are three every ten minutes. I really can do without forty messages a day talking about how hot Crispin looks in Charlie's Angels. I mean, sure, he's a big strapping hunk of quirky manmeat, but restrain yourself, girls.
Oh, in other Crispin news, Bartleby should be arriving from Netflix tomorrow or the next day. I can't wait!
I got a big-ass jar of peanut butter at the store the other day and the dullard bagboy mocked me. "Got enough peanut butter?" No, kid, go get me another one before I cut you.
Whoa, I just got a spam advertising glass vibrators. So if any of you need one, I can put you in touch with the guy. They're dishwasher safe.
Speaking of the Coen brothers movies, I finished The Man Who Wasn't There last night. I'm not sure. I think I give it 4 stars out of 5. The cinematography was incredible and the performances were amazing (esp. my man Billy Bob), but it somehow fell a tad short of the Coens' usual level. I think it was the plot--it didn't keep me that interested. Like I said, the performances and the freaking camerawork (every shot is a work of art) pretty much made up for what the plot lacked, but it still was just a little off. But I should watch it again. The first time I saw Lebowski I thought it was very good but kind of . . . I dunno, too lighthearted or something to be a really great movie, and now it's probably my favorite Coen movie.
For some inexplicable reason I watched Bull Durham this weekend, and I'll never get those two hours of my life back. Actually it wasn't terrible, just pedestrian. I'd heard it was one of the better baseball movies, though, so in a weak moment I put it on my Netflix queue. The worst part was the fake-ass, so-Southern-they-drip-gravy accents. People don't fucking talk that way! Or maybe a very few do, but there's never more than one in a group. Half the people in this movie sounded like Elly Mae Clampett. That kind of thing bugs the nuts off me. I mean, I'm not going to say there's no such thing as a Southern accent (actually there are several different ones), but . . . gah. You know whut ah mean, don't che sweetie pie? Shorrrre ye do.
It's Hunter S. Thompson's birthday this weekend. Dance a jig.
I hate people on mailing lists who think they have to respond to EVERY POINT in EVERY POST. And it's really bad when you have three or four of those on the same list. I'm gonna have to get off this Crispin Glover list--all I do is delete, delete, delete. And it's come out of nowhere; there used to be about three posts per month, and now there are three every ten minutes. I really can do without forty messages a day talking about how hot Crispin looks in Charlie's Angels. I mean, sure, he's a big strapping hunk of quirky manmeat, but restrain yourself, girls.
Oh, in other Crispin news, Bartleby should be arriving from Netflix tomorrow or the next day. I can't wait!
I got a big-ass jar of peanut butter at the store the other day and the dullard bagboy mocked me. "Got enough peanut butter?" No, kid, go get me another one before I cut you.
Whoa, I just got a spam advertising glass vibrators. So if any of you need one, I can put you in touch with the guy. They're dishwasher safe.
