I’ll Be in My Room... Painting Homo Things.

Ugh.  Everyone I talk to seems to be hitting some sort of creative wall, right now, and not coming off with any interesting-sounding SPLATs.  It’s okay, I tell them.  It’s the weather, it’ll change, I say.  But I’m blowing the same sunshine-scented Altoid smoke up my own ass.

I need to change things.

Before this entry disintegrates into undue bloggishness, lemme dump out some disheartening filmic failures:  Charlie & the Chocolate Factory isn’t factory-made but some sort of bizarre, glum factory in and of itself; Wedding Crashers gives you the chance to bask in the charming glow of everything that is wrong with humanity for two hours; 9 Songs – man, Winterbottom, I was rooting for you, but the only one who enjoyed this at the screening I attended was the guy who fell asleep fifteen minutes into it.

I will say that if you’re looking for a sure laugh –a valuable thing, these days – you’ll find it at The Aristocrats (though those that have weak constitutions should wear chin guards), and there’s no place better to be on an oppressively hot day than an overcooled movie theater showing penguins belly-flopping ‘cross ice fields (though if you do see March, bring your iPod:  Morgan Freeman, Patron Saint of Voice-Over Narration, prattles on endlessly).

Maybe someday (probably, oh, in time for the DVD release of all of the above) I’ll put together some sort of (useless, but) sterling analysis concerning them thar flicks.  But right now everything I type feels forced, there’s no vitality in the words, and if I ain’t enjoying the typing of it, you can’t be enjoying the reading of it.

I should be doing something more constructive with my time, something that would be of great service to society.

Like murdering Will Ferrell.

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