2003-12-16

Thanks for all the kind words, you lot. I�m touched�actually touched, in a place deep down inside me that is sincere and non-ironic. Not a place that gets a lot of sunlight or traffic, as you can imagine. It�s kind of like the bomb shelter of my soul: dark, firmly sealed, and filled with sundry canned goods. (Campbell�s Chicken Soup for the Soul, mostly.)

To continue in the spirit of genuineness, I am going to make a confession. Bless me, Interweb, for I have sinned! My movie collection�is impure.

I don�t know if I want to continue with this � I won�t be able to make fun of anyone ever again.

But, in the spirit of fairness, I suppose it�s only right that I open the door for everyone else to mock the hell out of me for a change. Here goes. I own � and by �own� I mean, �deliberately purchased, and have frequently watched and enjoyed� (none of this �someone left it at my house or something, I dunno, fuck off� nonsense) � both Bridget Jones�s Diary and About a Boy. And�oh man�Practical Magic. Argh! Don�t look at me!

In my own defense, it�s not that I think these are good movies in any critical sense (well, About a Boy is fairly OK, actually). They�re like junk food � crap, but soothing crap. Inoffensive, palate-pleasing crap. And sometimes, after I�ve been vigorously expanding my mind with political theory or James Joyce or something equally painful, I need to shrink my mind right back down again. It�s a question of cranial storage space. If I didn�t atrophy my brain by occasionally applying pur�ed Hollywood goo, I�d walk around with gray matter oozing out my ears, and that, my friend, is how you get yourself attacked by zombies.

Zombie defense: that is why I paid ten dollars to see Love, Actually in the theatre. Definitely. It�s cheaper than carrying around a shotgun, anyway, and almost as much fun.