My finger still hurts. It's not broken - I'm told by the legion of doctors I saw at a party Saturday night who ripped the piss out of me something royal - but it's bruised, and it's still tricky with the caps key. Worse things have happened, right?
Also, on Saturday night, I walked out of a film for the first time in: as long as I can remember. Starsky and Hutch, if you ask. Because you can take the self-referential, post-modern, deconstructed crap too far. Because you can kill the characters I remember from being a kid. Because you can write truly truly terrible scripts that have eight year old kids talking like grandfatherly hustlers. Because you can remake the best bits (opening car chase) exactly the same as the original, and then what's the point. Because... well, just because. Another childhood icon shot down in the name of seventies irony. Although I do still confuse them, a little, with the Dukes of Hazzard, but then, I am a girl.
Someone had already said to me "it's strictly straight to video, wait" and I should have listened.
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