Band Of Gold

I watched and enjoyed Darren Aronofsky’s long-delayed The Fountain today. A thoughtful and moving piece of fantastika (Warren Ellis meme, it’ll be big this year, trust me) – it will therefore vanish from the screens of the nation quicker than that same nations love for Jade Goody (ooh, cross-post contextualisation! Didja see what I did there? Didja? Didja?). Catch it while you can, as it deserves your love and attention.
There is a plot point within the story involving the loss, and eventual replacement of a wedding ring. And it got me to thinking. My wedding ring desperately wants to get shot of me. I’ve lost it twice so far, once in a bed of thyme in the garden, once by the bicycle racks at Reading station. And the girl who found it, posted the found note on the wall by the racks and eventually brought it back to me will forever have a place in that warm spot in my heart where I keep all the nice stuff. But anyway. It’s a chore keeping the darn thing on my finger, which seems to shrink slightly in cold weather. (That’s just my finger that shrinks by the way, you bunch of pervs…) I am led to muse thusly: if marriage is supposed to be so permanent, why is the symbol of that union so easy to lose? Wouldn’t it make more sense to make a mark of your enduring love that won’t fly off your hand in the middle of a gesticulatory argument?
Clare’s already made the suggestion, and I am in the market for some new ink this year. Could it be something like this?

Meanwhile, John at Whatever tells a fine story illustrating the dilemma, as well as making me feel better about my klutziness.

and finally…
just realised. This is my hundredth post. Good grief. I think it’s turned into a habit.

Trust me, this is the only time I’ll ever mention Big Brother on this blog…

Much as I shudder to think of The Most Annoying Show On Telly being mentioned in the Houses of Parliament, ferchrissakes, if the boiling row over Fatty, Sclubby and Cheaty ganging up on the fragrant Shilpa Shetty can leak as far as our august home of democracy, then frankly dammit I can spit in the barrel too. (Boy, there’s a mixed metaphor for ya.)
It’s not about racism. Let’s be realistic. It’s bullying, plain and simple. It’s ganging up on the girl who looks a bit different. In this case, ganging up on the prettiest girl in class just to make up for one’s own shortcomings. And if there’s one thing that annoys me more than Big Bother, it’s bullying. I now have even more reasons to hate the bloody thing. As far as I’m concerned, it’s good for nothing but switching off.
So the news that’s really tipped me into a steaming rage (boiling, steaming, you can tell I’m writing this while I’m cooking, can’t you) is that David Bloody Cameron agrees with me now.
GAAAH.
Can there be no end to this horror? Why does anyone view this nonsensical farrago, this parade of wannabes and hasbeens, as worthy of even a nanosecond of their attention? Will there have to be a murder in the benighted house for things to return to sanity?
Here’s the plan, people. Vote vote vote on Friday. Get Shilpa out of that rat’s nest. Then nuke the site from orbit. It’s the only way to be sure.
Oh. Sorry. Probably should have mentioned that earlier.

iPhone floundering

cos, as my readership is no doubt aware, here at th’Ugly Truth we are on the cutting edge, nose to the news, reporting the latest stuff before it even happens. Zeitgeist – we shit it.
So, apparently, Apple have a new phone now. Great. Just what I need. Of course, looking on the bright side, I’m locked into an 18-month contract which means I won’t be able to look at getting a phone until Christmas this year anyway which MEANS …
birfday and Xmas are Apple-based again this year. It’s lucky I’m almost masochistically patient.
And as long as it syncs phone numbers more successfully than the Robfone, which happily ate all mine on Sunday, leaving me needing to resync everything number by number and have I mentioned how much I hate Motorola lately. Oh, by the way…

Sorry. Probably should have mentioned that earlier.

In related news: who knew Steve Jobs was a Trekkie?

Yet more horrorful goodness. Snatching Time is a smart, funny and scary piece of work from the finest minds working in horror today … oh, okay, the Sick Puppies. Lauded at Frightfest last year, this little jolter is just the opening salvo in our assault in 2007. Prepare yerself, world…

Four Lies

The first film I ever made. Shot, cut and finished in a six-hour session in July 2002. And it looks like it. But it’s an exercise in what can be done with an idea and a bit of time and effort. Still quite pleased with the script.

Accident prone? Me?

Of course I am. I’m a disaster in the making. I have bruises on my scars. Even my owies have owies. I have yet to persuade TLC that a cleaver for the kitchen is actually a really good idea and much safer to use than the average kitchen knife. “Rob,” she patiently reminds me, “I was there when you took off the top of your thumb with a vegetable peeler. I think I can imagine what’ll happen as soon as you get your mitts on something with serious cutting potential.” Honestly. Given a chance, she’d have me choppping veg with a spoon.
I have my moments, but even I am a paragon of safety compared to James Nicholl, whose postings on rec.arts.sf are reproduced here.
I have to agree with his views on the usage of straight razors, too.

(from Sore Eyes.)