57 Varieties

First thing's first,

(I, Poppa, freaks all the honeys)

(man, you're fucking with the worst)

after a two-and-a-half-week wait, I FINALLY received my Watchmen Director's Cut DVD from YesAsia. [sarcasm]It's a good thing I paid extra for "express" shipping.[/sarcasm] I only saw the film once in the theater, and, as my March review may have hinted, my ambivalence toward the film grew in the weeks following the film's release. I still considered it a good movie, just not a great one -- which, minus some poor decision making and tonal conflicts, it had every right to be. Well, Constant Retards*, I'm happy to report that the director's cut nullified nearly every complaint I had with the theatrical cut. Molloch's ears are still bafflingly dumb, Dr. Manhattan's mouth still glaringly lifeless, but now that's about it as far as my complaints go. The director's cut, while twenty-six minutes longer, feels like the more cohesive film, actually; and as such I hereby declare Zack Snyder's cut of Watchmen to be a great film, one that can now stand apart from the graphic novel and call itself a masterpiece in its own right. (Even if Molloch's ears are fruitier than Carmen Miranda's hat.)

That out of the way, an update...

Update!

Legs, the uber-sexy Edith to my obstinate Archie Bunker, had a vacation last week. Which, word to Jules Winnfield, pretty much meant that I had a vacation last week (from Psychedelic Kimchi, Kraft Dinner, and masturbation). Fun was had by all but my liver, which probably hates me now like Blanche DuBois Hated Stanley Kowalski. Ask Kmart how he feels about the California Pizza Kitchen, then write that on his epitaph.

Update!

Tomorrow is the 18th Letter's sixth birthday, her second spent in the Western Hemisphere. She's reading prolifically, swimming prodigiously, and smiling endearingly. Also, have I mentioned how well she writes these days? Occasionally she'll inform me that my wanton usage of adverbs is distracting. For her seventh birthday, I'm making her a PK contributor. Move over, Idealjetsam!

Update!

I don't know for sure, but I have been told that Eskimo pussy is mighty cold. If anyone can verify, please get back to me on this most pressing of matters.

Update!

I'm writing a non-Psychedelic Kimchi short story. A snippet:

To say that Bootsy was eccentric would be an understatement. I was convinced -- hell, sometimes I still am -- that she was not of this planet. Her clothes were always mismatched. A pair of lime-green socks clashed with violet jogging pants; an oversized Hawaiian shirt covered her denim shorts so that she appeared to be nude from the waist down save for a pair of tan velvet boots. Her hair was always messy, and she dyed it every color in the spectrum. She had piercings seemingly everywhere on her body but her ears, and she applied makeup like Jackson Pollock painted.

Intrigued, non? If not, would you be more interested if I told you it's a story about a girl who eats a bicycle?

Update!

The Manic Street Preachers' Journal for Plague Lovers is, so far, the best album of the year. And if fails to retain that esteemed honor by year's end I promise I'll eat Doc Rivers's hat (if he has one).

Update!

Do yourself a huge favor and check out Time Travel for Beginners, the second-best blog on the Internet -- and there are only two posts! I expect great things from Avis and Mab (who are not Messrs Forbes and Highly, I swear).

Update!

I'm off for warm whiskey and cold beers. Kisses on all your pink parts.


* Mab!