Adding Machine. You're probably thinking, "Oh Great, a musical version of an Elmer Rice play; that's gonna be this year's definition of depressing." And yes, you're right, it is, but in a good way. The score is amazing, the acting and singing top notch, and the libretto/script takes the theme of the play and rides off in a couple of wonderful directions, all of them designed to make you say "I'm giving my notice at work tomorrow" when you walk out. Best line: "I might as well be alive." Go see it.
In Bruges. That's In Fucking Bruges, you fucking gobshite, because this is a fucking Martin McDonagh script, and you know what that means. "No I don't know what that means." Well I'll tell you what that means. "You tell me what that fucking means then." It means the end echoes back to the beginning quite fucking literally; it means a lot of the dialogue is q&a repetition, with deadpan riffs and total silliness ("This is the shoot-out"); and, oh yeah, it means a fucking shoot-out in fucking Bruges with actors still able to walk around after getting fucking drilled with fucking dum-dum bullets. And if you want to see why Colin Farrell keeps getting miscast as a fucking leading man, go watch him clean up in this flick in a character part that he totally makes his fucking own.
Arrogant Pricks. Giving Roger Clemens the benefit of the doubt when it comes to steroids doesn't change the fact that he attacks anybody who says anything against him, acts like he's above the law, pretends to knowledge of other people's memories, and sits in front of television cameras with a "How dare you accuse me -- I've won the Cy Young award more times than you've had sex" look on his face. All he needs is the smirk and he's a certain ex-owner of a baseball team telling us all how wonderfully things are going in Iraq. Which leaves the question: are all Texans this ass-holy? Or is it just Texans who have anything to do with baseball?
Atonement. Thank you, Kiera Knightley. Because you are the film equivalent of a Tootsie Roll Pop with nothing inside it, the kind of candy that can't even satisfy a sweet tooth? I thought James McAvoy was a fecking eejit for wanting you, and spent the whole movie imagining how fantastic Cate Blanchett would have been instead of you.
Sick, sick sick. Okay, I know I'm on the mend, but that's no reason my stupid body can't seem to stay awake for more than three or four stupid hours at a stupid time. The farching idea. Just because I'm fighting an infection, popping painkillers, and switching back and forth between alcohol and antibiotics, that's no reason for this stupid machine in which my brain and soul are trapped to shut down over a long weekend. Can't it shut down during the stupid work week for feck's sake? Stupid flesh and blood.
The sky is the killer of us all. And when I have been awake this weekend, I've been reading this: