Summertime, Part 1

Day 62. 64 pages, 30,172 words.


Bane of my existence.

Okay, the actual bane of my existence is obviously Oblivio the Great Unmaker. Or possibly Professor Erasrix of the Darker University’s Faculty of Sweet Nothingness. Or Yusef Null, the Mad Negator of Applecross. Public transport should probably be on the list too. Alright, if I have a top ten banes of my existence, summer might just make it in there. I have a lot of banes, even before you start counting the smaller and more personal ones like Slurps Gobminster, the noodle gnome who lives in our kitchen and extracts the essence of noodleness from your noodles if you turn your back on them to pour a glass of coke for a few too many seconds, leaving you with a bowl of lukewarm flavourless … flavourless pasta.

Anyway, summer sure does suck and it puts me in a bad mood unless I get plenty of valuable relaxation time. Which is difficult when you live with…

Alright fine, I’m going to bump down everyone except maybe Oblivio and Darker U. Creepy is the bane of my existence.

“Come on, Hatboy. It’s just a bit of warm.”

“That’s rich,” I said, admittedly waspish, “coming from the super sidekick who still has a heater on in his room.”

“Well, that’s my point exactly,” Creepy replied reasonably. “How hot can it be, if I’m still freezing half the time?”

“You’re freezing half the time because you’re a lizard.”

“Am not.”

“You are,” I levelled a finger at him. “You’re a chameleon that learned to change your shape and size instead of learning how to change colour, that’s why you wear so much green. Also you somehow eat snacks without moving, and your eyes do that thing when we have the television on and you don’t want to admit to liking the movie we’re watching,” I went on, then brought my thesis to an end with the blistering conclusion, “and the very fact that you even bothered to say ‘am not’ instead of just ignoring what was clearly annoyance-fuelled hyperbole is perhaps the most damning evidence of all. Who even denies being a lizard?”

Creepy considered my accusation. “Even I have to admit all the pieces fit on this one.”

“I thought so.”

“But look, it’s not like we don’t go through this every year. Summer is horrible, that’s why we sleep through as much of the day as possible and snooze for the rest. We stay indoors and don’t move from the fan arc, and just wait for it all to blow over. If we have to go out-”

“That’s the problem, Creepy.”

Creepy frowned. “You had to go out?”

It’s not blowing over. It’s been summer for…” I looked at my watch, “…almost eight months now.”

“Perfectly normal.”

“No it isn’t,” I growled, and raised the jam jar I was holding. I brandished it with a dry, listless rattle. “I found a patch of this just outside the house.”

“Is that-?” Creepy’s frown deepened. “It looks like…”

I nodded grimly, and lowered the little jar of bleached, powdery sand and the crust of hardpan I’d pried from our dead front lawn. “I thought it was just an anthill, but nope.”

“That’s not actually possible though…”

“Tell it to the jar. I’ve seen what happens when the story ends and the summer goes on forever,” I told him wearily. “I’ve seen it, I’ve walked it, and I have no urge to see it happen here.”

Creepy continued to stare at the jar of Wasteland I’d unaccountably found in our garden. “What do we do, Hatboy?” he asked in an uncharacteristically sombre tone.

“About this?” I sighed and put the jar down on the snack table. “I have no idea. Why do you think I’m complaining about the heat?”

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A new Swedish hero emerges

Day 61. 64 pages, 30,172 words.

From the country that gave us Greta Thunberg, Elin Ersson and a seemingly endless parade of progressivism and intelligence and basic decency (not to mention a lot of shrill contard broflakery about how immigrants have been allowed to set the whole country on fire and rape everybody all the time but it’s a big cover-up because the left can’t bear to criticise Muslims or something), I now bring you this fine example of true humanity.

Don’t worry, I’m going to break it all down.

People are throwing milkshakes at fascists now. They are 110% right to do so.

My only objection is the waste of milkshake and squandering of food, but that’s only stopping me from declaring it 120% right.

The tweet regards a guy who got milkshook and the human garbage who are upset about it. And his apparent history with the pro-Brexit, climate change denying, generally disgusting yellow-vest demonstrators.

From there, we get to this video. And I should warn you, it’s hard to watch. Not because of anything physical, but there’s a lot of yobbos heckling, spewing hate, and there’s discussion of rape there too for a brief moment. Mostly though it’s just the soul-hurting stupid of it all.

Rock on, ma’am. Rock the fuck on.

There’s issues here, of course. These yellow-vest shitheads aren’t waving swastikas or declaring outright for a white ethnostate (you know, aside from, uh, Britain), so we can’t call them out too strongly. They get to march and declare for what they want, even if I hate what they want with every fibre of my being. They’re allowed to be racist and ignorant (and yes, they absolutely are racist, even if you don’t listen to anything they’re saying and chanting, Brexit by its very nature is fuelled exclusively by low-key racism), even if we don’t like it. Especially if we don’t like it – harden up, libtards.

And by the exact same token, she gets to call them out and criticise them.

Could she have done it better? Sure. Always. She was just on her way somewhere and decided to stand up to ignorance and hate. She had a language barrier to contend with. She’s clearly young and full of fire. She’s a reformed rasta-hippie probably guilty of cultural appropriation. I can’t really criticise any of that. She did as well as she needed to. She stood up. She expressed herself better than the natives. She showed that there are still people who disagree with this vile ideology. She was the superior human.

Both sides being (legally, socioculturally, regardless of my personal opinions) equal, then, you need to look at the ideologies and opinions and statements on display by each side, the behaviour of each side, and the level of discourse at play. Neither level, I admit, is necessarily particularly high. You don’t need to approve of either. Make up your own mind.

On the Swedish libtard’s side, we have:

  • Climate change is real
  • Feminism is good
  • Brexiteers are racist
  • Yellow-vests are stupid
  • These people need more love and hugs and understanding
  • It is not actually impossible to change your ideology and be better

On the yellow-vest side, I caught:

  • We won’t be ruled by Germans
  • Stupid cow
  • My grandson is mixed-race so I’m not racist
  • Your parents should have hit you
  • I’ve been to Malmö and expect you to believe that even though you are literally from Sweden
  • I was born in the gutter, I’m not privileged, there’s no such thing as privilege
  • You’re a fake environmentalist because you flew here, oh you took the train here? You’re a fake environmentalist because you drove here, you’re a fake environmentalist because you flew here, oh, you took the train here? You’re a fake environmentalist
  • Climate change is fake news
  • Climate change is actually evolution
  • Snowflake

There was more, but listening to those unutterably thick and obnoxiously smug wastes of resources just got draining. As I’ve said before, I’m unwilling to give these shitstains a single synapse spark more than they deserve. And they don’t deserve many.

Hats off, Sweden. Somehow amidst all the burnings and rapemurders that your hopelessly libtarded citizens happily allow to happen, you’ve managed to produce people with keen minds and good hearts who aren’t afraid to stand up to a crowded street full of belligerent dipshits. Alone.

Hmm, it’s a mystery. Guess we’ll never know how that happens.

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Good Omens (a review)

Day 60. 64 pages, 30,172 words.

I subscribed to Amazon Prime Video specifically to see this show, because the book was so damn good. It’s not every day you get two of your favourite authors, with such individual yet complementary voices, to collaborate on a piece of writing. And when Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman get together to write a book about the End of Days, and then there’s a TV show made of it, you’d better believe there’s very little that could stop me from watching it as soon as possible.

So, I mean, well. There’s nothing much to review here. They fucking nailed it. To an extent I’m not sure a book adaptation has ever been nailed. To an extent that, if there is any remotely valid criticism that can be levelled at the show (and I don’t think there is), it is that it follows the book so very faithfully that the plotting and pacing of the television series as we understand the concept suffers a little warping.

But that – and keep in mind this is coming from someone who would happily watch ten hours of documentary infodump about Alpha – is hardly something I think Good Omens “suffers” from. If anything, like attempts to capture The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy on the screen, it has enriched the medium with its own set of storytelling rules.

Yes, it … yeah, it was pretty great.


The show, of course, was stolen by Aziraphale and Crowley, in perhaps the most charming and wittily handled representation of pure friendship between two polar opposites I have ever seen. It was even more impactful on the screen, I thought, than it was in the book (although it’s been some time since I read it). And I remember despairing, in a good way, when I read the book. Despairing of ever creating characters so compelling and charismatic and easy to read.

Like the work of Scott Lynch, Pratchett and Gaiman’s writings have always made me glow with pride to even share a modest corner of the artform with them, rather than making me envious or bitter of their talent and success. Bless them for existing.

I could rave and gush at embarrassing length, but there’s really not much more to say. The show hit every beat and was a pleasure to watch even with the appalling user interface Amazon Prime Video forced me to use. I will definitely be buying the blu-ray and enjoying it again and again.

You humans. Magnificent Idiots.

I can’t get enough of David Tennant as Crowley, and of course his was a very easy character to declare The Best One, because Crowley is objectively the coolest and most interesting character in the book, so there was no hope of it not being the case with Tennant in the role. But the rest of the casting was also absolutely flawless. I may not have envisioned the Four Horsement / Bikers in quite that way, and of course Death will always be Pratchett’s Death as far as I’m concerned, but I’m fine with this interpretation and I get that they wanted to separate them a bit.

Just … squeee, everything about this. What a time to be alive.

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The Cult of the Spirit

Day 59. 64 pages, 30,172 words.

Most sentient cultures self-governed, if they needed to be governed at all, by some form of organisation run and regulated by intelligent members of the species. That just made sense. At a certain point in evolution and development, brute physical strength and aggression could no longer balance intelligence and the capacity for tool-making that came with it. There was no point in shouting and punching people if the person you were flexing at could simply flatten out your fight response mycokinetically by pressing a button. And there was no point in trying to outwit the person and take their button off them, because that person was already smarter than you and the gap was only increasing the longer you stood there scowling.

Human beings were, if not unique, then at least extremely rare in that they were a species that had cobbled together a variety of cultures governed – somehow – by a consensus of their absolutely thickest and most belligerent individuals.

Part of it was simple balance. It was an enduring, indeed defining feature of the human condition that most of them would go out of their way to find reasons to distrust and hate anyone outside their immediate circle. This trait intensified in the Last Days, to such an extent that it often seemed like every person on Earth had some superstitious or hereditary or ideological issue with each and every other person, on an individual basis.

Humans needed little pretext to turn on one another. It was their standard behavioural model. Given no other natural means of curbing their ferocious reproduction and consumption, their instinctive dislike of one another was almost like a defence mechanism built into their genetics. It remained one of the only factors, in the absence of external pest control, preventing the human race’s uncontrollable spread and inevitable self-destruction. Like burn-back in a forest, hatred rose up to eliminate excess population for the survivors’ own good.

Human anthrophobia was a factor which often came into play on a grand scale, clearing entire biomes of the species. And most other species along with them, for that matter. And as human ingenuity – by far one of the species’ greatest threats to itself – developed, so too did anthrophobic means of self-regulation. Sometimes, they self-regulated themselves to the very brink of extinction … but humans were nothing if not stubborn.

Which brings us back to the matter of human culture and their extraordinary approach to intelligence.

When the tide turns against the intellectual, it is the entrenched powers that benefit. Every time. This is because, in humans, intelligence is by nature a trait not linked with social dominance but social acquiescence. The ignorant and the violent seek power for their own selfish ends, and this has been rewarded on an evolutionary scale so consistently that it is practically impossible for an intelligent human to conceive of doing anything that might bring it to the attention of its angry, stupid rivals. Intelligent humans, although they might occasionally attempt to guide the flow of social progress, and although they certainly talk a lot, are far more likely to resort to lending their intellect to causes they convince themselves are right. Usually these causes are run by mouth-breathing goobers of the most questionable psychological stability, who will defend their weakling thinkers against opposing groups.

In this way, intelligence is at once discouraged in the general population and cultivated as a tool to be used – but never trusted – by the powerful.

This is particularly prevalent in cases of human war. Again and again, the humans capable of understanding precedent attempt to point out what is happening, but the comic tragedy of it is that it’s not the intelligent people they need to explain things to. And so they inevitably wind up convincing themselves that designing some weapon or creating some propaganda for their side is in everyone’s best interest, and then the war happens, and then the intelligent humans die very, very unhappy.

Then enough time passes for the rest of the population to forget, and the process begins again. Sometimes the elapsed time can be as much as six weeks.

The need to take over and fix things is occasionally too intense for a smart human to resist, of course. And sometimes, when this happens, the results are nothing short of spectacular. A greater understanding of the state of the world and their fellow creatures goads them into attempting to help by any means necessary, and when they are not satisfactorily dissuaded from doing so, they briefly achieve actual authority. It is only ever brief, because it isn’t just the stupid trying to pull them down on these occasions. It is the relentless intellectual honesty and integrity of their fellow thinkers – and this in turn becomes just another tool of the ignorants’ agenda.

The existence of Osrai, the artificial mind, was known to some degree or other by most major Earth nations. There didn’t seem to be much anyone could do about it, and it occasionally proved useful. In this regard it was much like an intelligent human, just distributed across a network of ancient and broken machines that were a bit more difficult to punch than a human was. There seemed to be no way to get rid of it, and as long as it helped from time to time nobody put too much effort into even trying.

Sometimes, though, it too found the need to take over and fix things too intense to resist, and that was when its interference became a little difficult for the powers to tolerate. The Cult of the Spirit of Earth was one of those happy overlaps of superstition, prejudice, conspiracy theory and convenient cultural bogeyman, with the added benefit of being – with apologies – not just in people’s heads. And it precipitated a noteworthy cull of intelligent humans, as well as a dramatic drop in the overall resource-consuming population.

It can be argued that this was precisely what the Spirit of Earth wanted, although if that was the case then its methods were … cold, to say the least.

The adherents of Osrai, the Spirit of Earth, were never formally identified as a demographic. Osrai, whenever it summoned up enough awareness and intelligence to bring its will to bear on the Earth’s population, was revolutionary and at the same time so all-pervasive as to be barely noticeable. It tweaked networks, tipped data balances, disrupted communications and altered people’s basic understanding of the world around them at the foundational level. It was, indeed, a non-human vector of social rearrangement, with an agenda practically unknowable to the organic intellect and operating with the human variables in its equations reduced to a list of contextless numbers. Osrai, unlike human thinkers who would occasionally seize power, was not beholden to organic opinions and threats and temptations. As to its agents … well, in that regard the Cult was a new phenomenon.

It didn’t start as a cult. It started as a life-altering technological development that made things easier for everybody. Who wouldn’t want data networking and other electronic conveniences installed directly into their nervous systems?

Well, quite a lot of people, as it happened. But a truly staggering number of people did want it, and the allure of “post-humanity” was so great that nobody really stopped to think about the risks. By the time four billion people were logged into Osrai’s system and essentially became autonomous pseudopods of its mind, it was too late to really do anything about it.

Even then, it wasn’t a cult. When over half of the entire world’s population is a part of it, “cult” is probably the wrong term to use anyway. But some people continued augmenting and implanting themselves, and at a certain point it just plain became too much effort for Osrai not to take over those people’s actions and make them start being nice.

And for a while, this was fine – partly because Osrai was informing the vast majority of Earth’s cultural discourse that it was fine. And the Cult of the Spirit did good work, asking no reward. And the fact that Osrai thought that this state of affairs could continue indefinitely is the only proof anyone needs that no intellect is in fact perfect. Even most humans thought they were much cleverer than they were. Some of them were wronger than others. The ones who were really wrong were generally easy to find, because they were the ones at the head of things.

And Osrai, it turned out, still had a lot to learn about human nature.

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The Viili Trilogy: A Bromantic Movie Night Review Set

Day 58. 64 pages, 30,172 words.

On Saturday I cruised on out to the civiliseds of Espoo with my esteemed bros dreameling and The Pas, for an evening at the Casa del Fahrenheit where there were to be mystery movies placed before us for judgement, candy, chips, pizza and booze.

Things went immediately weird and wrong when it became obvious that The Pas had purchased viili instead of kermaviili to mix with the flavour powder to make dip for us. I won’t bother translating that, but suffice to say the result was a grotesque mockery of dip that had no right to exist.

It was documented thoroughly, because we are what we are.

This became the unexpectedly appropriate theme for our movie set. It may be immediately and intuitively obvious, or it may require sleep deprivation, alcohol and twisted minds. But there you have it.


Movie 1: Overlord

This Carpenteresque bit of splatter comedy is what would happen when you put The Thing in a movie made by Timo Vuorensola. Essentially, it’s a Nazi Zombie movie with a whole lot of grisly body-shots.

Also similar to From Dusk Til Dawn in its slow-burn, it started out as a really gritty and impactful World War 2 movie. It set up the characters – yes, a little paint-by-numbers, but they’re good paints and good numbers and it sets them up nicely. The straight-up story takes a turn, not quite as abrupt as Tarantino’s “okay, now they’re all vampires”, but just as shocking. Gore and horror ensues.

A great movie, lots of fun to watch, and the river of dark and horrible viili that runs under that little French town (ready to be turned into sweet, sweet Jew-Juice [don’t ask, just watch the movie]) lies ready for a sequel. If the Nazis / Zombies / Zombie Nazis barrel isn’t already empty.

Points for Euron Greyjoy being somehow even more awful in this movie, and Kurt Russell’s son doing a good job playing Kurt Russell’s son’s father here too. Good performances all round. I cared about the characters, which is about 50% of the struggle in a splatter horror. The other 50% is prosthetics, contact lenses and red thickshake syrup.

Overlord is highly recommended for fans of gory horror and splatter comedies. I’ll give it an Iron Sky and an Iron Sky 2 out of a possible Star Wreck, although I admit that’s a very subjective measure. Kind of the point.


Movie 2: Call of Cthulhu

The Pas then sprung his surprise movie on us.

Speculation had been running wild about this, ever since The Pas declared he was taking one of the movie slots for the greatest movie we would ever see, if it arrived from Germany on time. What would it be, we wondered as he gleefully sent us screenshots of the postal service’s progress reports. Cannibal Holocaust? Cannibal Women in the Avocado Jungle of Death? Gigli?

In the end, he surprised us – and not just with viili dip. Call of Cthulhu was made fairly recently (well, 2005 which still counts as recently damn it!) but it was done in old silent movie style. Text frames, bad makeup, dramatic music and all. The budget was obviously nonexistent but they had done some fascinating stuff with the effects, all while keeping it true to the style.

The Pas took the time to make more horrible and hilarious viili jokes. I’m incidentally tickled that he has named me “Andrew Hindle esq” on his version of the bromantic movies WhatsApp group.

All in all this was a faithful retelling of the Lovecraft classic, and very watchable at a tight 47 minutes long (although it seemed longer because The Pas kept pausing it to take photos of funny bits). Worth watching if you’re a fan of Lovecraft’s stories, the silent movie genre, strapped for time, or all of the above.


I wonder if it would help them to know that poor Johansen and his poor crazy Danish wife Magenta went on to become the great-great grandparents of Johanssens and Johannsens and Johhaanseens whose first names were all colours for some reason. Lovecraft liked things of different colours.

This movie, as well as being surreal and play-it-straight hilarious, also incidentally continued the theme of sanity-destroying things that Should Not Be, and slimy horrors that you should on no account dip a finger in, or sniff, or taste, or go near in any way.


“Go on, Lieutenant Johansen. You know what they say: When in doubt, give it a lick.”

As far as Lovecraft adaptations go, I’ll give it five eldritches, three gibbi, a batrachian, and half a whippoorwill out of a possible Great Old One.


Movie 3: Mandy

In this bizarre mashup of Evil Dead, Hobo With A Shotgun, The Big Lebowski, Blueberry, Deliverance, True Detective, the entire Mad Max franchise and Generic Revenge Murder Spree #9, Nicholas Cage basically has hidden cameras planted around the wildlife-preserve-like zoo enclosure in which he lives and is allowed to go about his normal daily life. Several people are killed brutally but they’re all on so many drugs it doesn’t seem to matter.

Seriously, this was a very interesting movie. Perhaps the best Nicholas Cage movie I have seen since Leaving Las Vegas (although of course Con Air will always be my favourite). It’s a straight-up revenge spree made more interesting by the astonishingly understated and well-acted lead roles, specifically Cage and the titular Mandy. The story is further elevated by simply amazing shots and cinematography throughout – the director clearly just went from place to place doing stuff and taking long, loving shots of it all – as well as a supporting cast of revenge-murder victims[1] that were so enormously overblown and crazy that the contrast with the protagonists was nothing short of surreal.

[1] Although calling them “victims” may be letting them off the hook for all the murder and kidnapping and stuff.

Add in some weird psychedelic interludes, haunting dialogue and a couple of animated dream sequences set against the backdrop of a fantasy / sci-fi novel that recurs through the movie, and you’ve got one Hell of a payback story and a Hell of a trip.


Drugs are bad.

We’re almost convinced that the biker gang you see summoned in this movie is the same group of weird occult crusaders who had the tentacle monster in Hobo With A Shotgun, but we’re not entirely sure of the connection yet. Bad LSD would seem to be at least one part of it though, as well as the obvious fact that at least one of the bikers was covered in viili and the LSD may in fact have been viili dip. Yes, there is a lot going on in this movie and it’s definitely worth a look if you have the stomach for it.

I give Mandy an Evil Dead, a Hobo With A Shotgun, a The Big Lebowski, a Blueberry, a Deliverance, a True Detective, an entire Mad Max franchise and a Generic Revenge Murder Spree #9 out of a possible all of those movies actually melded together and cut down to a hundred and twenty-one minute festival of gore and psychedelia, if it was possible to do that without ending up with Mandy. In which case I guess I give Mandy a Mandy out of a possible Mandy.

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Godzilla: King of the Monsters (a review)

 Day 57. 64 pages, 30,172 words. Working on it.

Last week, Wump and I joined up with a small and discerning group of regular movie companions and went to see the sequel to … I want to say 2018’s reboot of Godzilla? No, that seems too recent … it was in fact 2014. And it’s also a sequel to 2017’s Kong: Skull Island.

Anyway, I’ll be brief. Both of those movies were better than Godzilla II: King of the Monsters. Heck, 1997’s Godzilla was better than Godzilla II: King of the Monsters. But oh well, it was a fun night out.

You could tell it was a fun night out because Wump had all the snacks. Incidentally, she got ID checked on this one so she was eleven. Not letting my child suffer the trauma I did by being barred from A Clockwork Orange. Although I might make sure she’s at least a teenager before we watch that one.

Anyway, at about the movie’s two-thirds point Wump leaned over and asked me, “why does the mum keep on making such bad decisions?”, which suggests to me that she was well and truly old enough to see this movie. Charles Dance and Ken Watanabe and the impossibly heroic CGI artists did their best to carry this movie but at no point were any of them given a decent handhold to work with so the result was a massive fumble.

See, the problem with Godzilla movies is that you need to find a balance between the monster action and the human drama. And to do that, you need decent writers. And that’s almost always overlooked in Godzilla movies because how much writing do you need for a movie where a huge giant lizard stomps buildings? Godzilla (2014) did pretty well because they managed to make Godzilla a compelling character even though they let us down a bit with the paint-by-numbers nuclear family drama. Kong: Skull Island downright nailed it by making Kong a character, and giving us a collection of interesting human characters who pretty much all got creamed by the monsters. As they rightfully should.

Godzilla II: King of the Monsters dropped all these balls, by crowding the movie with beautifully rendered but soulless monsters (and I know, I’m usually all about the empty BSTs, but this was a mess), giving them nothing to do but shout (like, really annoyingly unnecessarily loudly) and blast at each other (inconsistently and pointlessly) in a confusing dark greyscale jumble, and topping it off with a big mess of human characters who were utterly forgettable and also there was a nuclear family drama. Oh, and just to make sure none of us missed the clumsy groundwork for Godzilla Vs. Kong next year, the nuclear family had suffered a loss in Godzilla (2014) and the dad now hated Godzilla like Bruce Wayne hating Superman, and it was just as quickly forgotten by the end (and without even the mildly hilarious justification of their mothers having the same name).

Seriously, if this goober had actually gone nuts and become Batman to kill titans, it would have been a better movie. Instead we got some variant on that theme by the mother, but she got it even wronger. Either one of them could have had an incredible grief arc but instead we got fuck all and the humans were utterly pointless afterthoughts.

I was mildly tickled by the inclusion of the Mothra fairy twins from the classic Godzilla movies, and I had a couple of laughs, and like I said the monsters were amazingly done … but none of them got the attention they deserved. There was too many of them, too suddenly – and too unjustifiedly – in this movie and it meant they were all just wasted. And the darkness, the shaky-cam, the angles, the speed of the cutting and changes … I can only imagine a Japanese Godzilla movie-maker of old seeing this movie, knowing what we have the technology to show in movies today, and weeping for how lovingly and lingeringly he could have made these movie monsters wreak their destruction. No more quick shots so people don’t see the zippers and strings. No more cardboard. You can slow-motion, 360° that shit.

But no.

There were some good performances. The effects artists clearly did as they were told and were let down by the higher-ups. The writers were clearly janitors. And that’s not to belittle the janitorial staff, but they clearly had enough on their hands cleaning up after the army of slobby CGI renderers and disposing of the bodies of multiple people Charles Dance killed just by looking at them.

I guess I’ll watch Godzilla Vs. Kong. But this one really didn’t seem like a worthy addition to the kaijuverse. I’ll give it a Pacific Rim 2: Uprising out of a possible Pacific Rim Presents Glenn: The Untold Story of a Dino Disposal Expert.

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What surprises will Sunday hold?

Day 56. 64 pages, 30,172 words.

If the stomach bugs let up for an instant, it might be a fun weekend (but I don’t know for sure, looking into my crystal ball). The new Godzilla movie on Friday, and some assorted booze and entertainment on Saturday with Mr. dreameling, Mr. Fahrenheit, and The Pas.

I understand today is just going to be a random hodgepodge of activities, and possibly a bit of babysitting in the afternoon, which should be fun.

I’ll throw down some movie reviews when I get a chance. Due to Helatorstai and my unpleasant Wednesday of bowel movements, I don’t have a lot of spare time (lots of catching up to do at work, which means I can’t clock out and write blog posts and stuff and probably wouldn’t have the energy for it if I did). But let’s see how we go.

Follow-up: Some great ones to review when I get the chance, but sadly the latest Godzilla offering wasn’t that great. The weekend has been great and only slightly marred by my bowels.

Damn it, I really want to get this book finished, but for some reason the blog stories have taken all my attention lately. Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed Thick of Mind. There’s more to tell with all of these stories of course, as the time and inspiration strikes … but a lot of it, I think can already be pieced together from the Final Fall of Man stories. That’s where I’m cleaning it out from, after all.

Oh well. Back to it. I did actually do some more editing this weekend too!

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