November 11th, 2012

Captain Kris W'lash

All of Hell is a grill. (Sounds like a Tom Waits lyric.)

The subject line just came out of me once, a long time ago, and I saved the line because I liked it.


My big social outing this weekend was going with Heather G., Mat from Sequelcast and Heather's date Ryan to a Friday night showing of Skyfall. Elegant film. Damn elegant. It also made me grin a lot at some pretty audacious Bond-film filmmaking. I also appreciated the mood of it; it's one of the sadder Bond films I've seen, sad through much of it (quips aside (like Collapse ))) as opposed to the concentrated burst of sadness at the end of On Her Majesty's Secret Service. I like that a lot of the film is deliberately low-key, like Ben Whishaw's performance as Q. (I kept wondering if Q was played by Cillian Murphy, but that may also be because Murphy slipped so nonchalantly into his The Dark Knight Rises cameo.) Generally I don't revisit films as much as I used to, but Skyfall made me want to revisit 2008's Quantum of Solace and see if it holds up for me; I remember it as being more of a mood piece than a lot of Bond films are.

"I'm going to have nightmares about Javier Bardem," Heather said after the film. I admitted one particular shot of him (involving his teeth) freaked me out a bit. Later I also promised her that I'd finally, finally, brave watch the film of No Country For Old Men. I have a hold on the DVD from the library as we speak. I mean, as I type.

Saturday was resting time for the most part, with my big outing being to the Holgate library -- and, while waiting for a computer to use there, a quick walk around the Multnomah Park Cemetary at SE 82nd and Holgate. I must admit my shame at looking at the sign saying that the cemetary opened in 1888 and saying to myself "People were dying to get in!," though in my defense, I first heard that joke from Peter David. After my library time and cemetary time, I walked down to Foster and walked up to a barber shop friends of mine go to, and got a way-overdue serious cut. I kept my longish sideburns, but they're no longer so, er, fluffy. I'm not yet going to try to imitate the fantastic mutton chops artist Paul Guinan used to have. Or get my sideburns cut into those Star Trek points, but trust me, someday I'll try that.

Today's been a home day. I actually dressed like I'd be going out -- nice slacks, belt, button-down shirt -- but, post-shower, I didn't put on deodorant. Might as well save it for a day people will smell me.

Ignore if you've never seen Stripes

So there's that scene in Stripes where Bill Murray, Harold Ramis, John Candy and other troops go to a topless bar, with Candy winding up in the mud wrestling ring and causes havoc to the tune of Elmer Bernstein's wonderfully jaunty "Stripes" march, and everyone's cheering until the cops raid the bar and when I thought back on that scene I wondered:

Could it really have been that loud from outside the bar?

I mean, seriously, why that night for a raid? Then I realized that the guys in basic training were likely AWOL so the cops were sent after them, but then I thought:

There's that waitress, and she's topless, but she covers up when the cops arrive! Why?

And then I realized Oh! I can claim she's covering up because the cops aren't paying customers!

I can justify anything.

This brought to you by the march in this:

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