It's 2009 folks, the year of years, the optimist's 1st-prize-shopping-spree through the Candy Store, and a call to arms for this guy (pointing to myself, well rhetorically, because i need both hands to type). I've, for what it's worth, actually got Apartment Hunting on track, in a very good way. I sort of ripped the whole thing apart, like one of those We'll remodel your shitty house for you for the sake of good, poignant Television programs--because when it came down to it the skeleton was unnecessarily antiquated to my original idea/purpose for the whole project. And the masturbatory stigma is looming in the foothills, setting up shop, but as stated, this Beast is read, being fit for Armor as we speak. This will be finished by my 29th Birthday, February 16th, 2009. There, the proverbial gauntlet has been thrown, and if I don't live up to it, we can throw a parade of shame down Milwaukee Ave., from Bucktown to West Town.
My film-watching has been hustling and bustling, and a full review of Oscar-y stuff will be posted soon. But on the home video front, I caught Labyrinth the other day with my girl, and while the Nostalgia washed over me in an awesome wave (brett easton ellis, 'American Psycho') I noticed one small, or not so small, thing: The Bulge in David Bowie's tights is larger-than-life. I mean little cod pieces could orbit around this thing. For as hot as Jennifer Connelly is now, she HAD to have noticed/been turned-on/intimidated...something. Or Jim Henson, The Producers, The Director...anyone? This puts me to shame in a lovingly acceptable way, because who doesn't love David Bowie. So I've been polling all my friends about 'The Bulge' and apparently it's ubiquitously loved/acknowledged/engraved in the pantheon of tangential-movie-factotum. If it wasn't between his legs we'd have a tumor worthy of The Mayo Clinic.
That is all...
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