Archive for September 21st, 2008

Guys, seriously.  You may have to sit down and slap some sense into me.   NOTHING is grabbing my attention right now; not on Netflix, not in my personal movie collection, nothing.   I may just post my wide array of movies that I own and let you guys pick and choose, because…damn.

I think watching Gerard Butler do the worst striptease in the history of cinema broke my brain or something.  I hurt all over.   I had to drag myself, broken, bloodied and anguished across the finish line to get to the end of that last one.

So far this weekend, I have agonized over lip gloss, a pair of sandals, my fantasy hockey auto-draft (oh my god, my team is filled up with midgets and jerks and like…TWO ACCEPTABLE people), and wrapping up Season 6 of Friends, which needs to be returned to one of my Best Friends Ever.

As you can tell, I’ve mulled a lot over movies this weekend.   And also, you can tell that I live the high-life, right?

Anways, thus, you guys get a little link love, some miscellaneous crap, and some randomness from my brain this evening before I turn in for the night, I guess.

First up, if you’re a LAMB, WHY HAVE YOU NOT E-MAILED ME YOUR CHOPS SUBMISSION YET?   Get on it!     Go check the LAMB if you’re unclear about what to do.

  • I did this nifty thing for Fletch over at Blog Cabins called CAGEFEST.   Mine was the con position on Con Air.   I know you’re all shaking your heads in disbelief that I took a negative position on a Nic Cage movie, but I did, and if I had to get my ass whipped by anyone, I suppose it was a pleasure having my ass whipped by Adam from The Hater Nation.   Also, you’ve got to respect the fact that Fletch took a statement like this, ” She’s currently up to 1,466, but that number doesn’t reflect all the work and passion that goes into her site,” which is clearly a nice way of saying, “Caitlin has no life, humor her.”   Love ya, Fletch.

If you haven’t checked out Fataculture, you should.   Go read Nick’s reviews and then be flabbergasted by the fact that Nick is only 16.   Dude makes me feel like a monkey bashing away on a typewriter.   He’s awesome and you should read him.

  • If my life was a Western movie, Scott from He Shot Cyrus would totally be my gunslinging, mime-gang partner in crime.   Scott’s mega-supportive of 1,416 and Counting and I’m mega-supportive of He Shot Cyrus.   Scott even has a tattoo of DOUG on his body.   That, my friends, is geek awesome.

J.D. over at Valley Dreamin’ is like a fifteen year old version of me.   Okay, so it’s more like a fifteen year old version of me with more Japanese animated movies and less Vincent Cassel, more Ting-Tings and Demi Lovato and less The Smiths and The Subhumans, but you get my drift.

  • Final Girl is the end all and be all of horror blogs.  Much love, Final Girl, much love, as you keep me consistently entertained, although you were so totally right about The Burning.

Twitch is my first stop for all Russian movie related news (as well as other foreign film releases) so if you’re not reading them, you’re doing yourself a disservice.

  • Allison’s just starting out but you should check her out, as she’s got some great stuff up.   Well played, Allison.

Kevin makes me laugh a lot and is endlessly entertaining, even if he does like Gremlins a whole bunch.   NOT FUNNY, THAT MOVIE IS TERRIFYING.

And…I think that’s about it?

Thank you to all you fine people for making my daily blog-reading a scintillating experience, to say the least.

Oh, and before I forget:  I’ll be gone all next weekend, so don’t tear the place up while I’m gone, okay?   Hockey is calling my name and I got some good seats to a pre-season game, so be kind to the site while I’m not gone and watch where you’re spilling your beers, dammit.

Read Full Post »

Family members used to say to me when I was a kid, “If you keep rolling your eyes like that, your eyes are going to roll right out of your head.” And my mother, bless her, would tell me, “Your face is gonna stick like that if you’re not careful,” when I was in awful, sour moods.

Momma, assorted family members: My eyes didn’t roll out of my head and my face didn’t stick like that, and I think P.S. I Love You is the scientific test to see if either of those statements are actually true.

This movie is so bad it has to be given the full, awful treatment. What can I say? The suffering – I’m passing it on. Think of it as paying it forward, just with badness. Strap in, grab your booze, because I’m going through this one every arduous bit.

We start out in medias res (how’s that for a fancy term, eh?) with Holly and Gerry, a married couple living in NYC who are having a huge fight. Holly’s mad that Gerry told her mother that they wanted to wait to have children, which she equates with Gerry telling her that this means she doesn’t want to have children. From this ensues the most manic, nonsensical fight I’ve seen on film in a while. It’s a lot of What Holly Thinks Gerry Says and Gerry just standing there, bewildered and defending himself, while his wife throws shit at him and has a Life Crisis.

This is where I firmly hopped on the “I HATE YOU, P.S. I Love You,” train, for two reasons: One, I loathe this sort of thing, where the woman rants and raves about things that make no sense while the husband has to calm her down, and two, because she pretty much gets away with throwing shit at her husband’s head. If you’re trying to make me like Holly, this isn’t the way. If you reversed their roles, no one would ever think Gerry throwing things at Holly was remotely acceptable, but since she’s a woman and she just threw a Marc Jacobs shoe at him, that’s okay.


Then they kiss and make up and Gerry says, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” – cue me, screaming at my televison, “FOR WHAT? MARRYING A CRAZY BEEYOTCH?” – and they go to sleep, with words of love and giggling. So, I’m already reaching for the whiskey bottle that doesn’t exist.

Also, I have a really hard time buying Gerard Butler as a devoted husband. Gerard Butler always looks to me like the drunk guy at the end of the bar with the cute accent. He’s the guy that you know is a lot of fun, but only in that he’s fun from the hours of 9 p.m. to last call o’clock and that he’s a miserable wretch for the rest of the day. So seeing him as Husband of the Year is kind of weird to me, in the sense that I keep thinking, “Don’t you have somewhere to go to pickle your liver or something?”

Moving forward.

We land in the present time, where we’re at a bar. And while we’re at it, let’s cue up the Irish Stereotype Counter right about now.


Read Full Post »