I recieved spam today with the subject line: Discover Why Printing May Be Obsolete.

Really? It seems to me people have been saying this for about the last 20 years or so. From roughly the beginning of the personal computer, the death of print has been heralded. However, rather than less print there has been more. Of course the implication in that subject line, and what people concluded once the PC appeared, was that everyone would read, create documents etc. electronically. It didn't happen, hasn't happened, and likely won't happen any time soon despite the efforts of those anxious for a world of e-publishing. (God, I hate putting an "e" in front of a word.)

A more attention getting subject line would have been: Discover Why Printing Won't Go Away. Now that would have been an e-mail I might have opened.

I seem to be on a movie review writing roll. A passle o' new entries in the Movie Room. They may be full of shit, but that's okay. It's interesting that the very act of making yourself write something down, of forcing yourself to find something to say about the film, forces you to think about what you've seen in a way you wouldn't have otherwise. I mean, there are loads of things I see that pass in and pass out of my consciousness because, once done, I move on to the business of living again. But making yourself write about them makes you think about them and then, quite often, you discover a good deal more in a movie than you initially thought. You start to understand what it is you like about the movies you like, what you dislike in the ones you dislike and, once you've starting discovering these things, you start to become aware of a few things about yourself. And that has to be good, doesn't it?

Hats off to the Canadian branch of Amazon. I ordered two movies around 11AM yesterday from Amazon.ca and they arrived today, one day later, at about 11AM. Now that's fast.

I appear to be experiencing a noir phase. Arriving today were Kiss Me Deadly from 1955 and, from 1990, Dennis Hopper's unjustly overlooked The Hot Spot with Don Johnson, Virginia Madsen and Jennifer Connelly. Thanks to the Lileks site for reminding me of this one.

Tonight ... some DVD watching, to be sure.

Yes, I am full o' crap. Not so long ago I said I was going home to watch John Sayles Passion Fish ... but I didn't. Yesterday I said I was going to watch Howard Hawk's Ball of Fire ... but I didn't. And tonight ... well, I'm saying I'm going to watch Fritz Lang's 1953 noir classic The Big Heat. Third time the charm? You bet. I haven't seen this one in years and I just picked up the DVD. There's the exciting quality of something new here, even if it's old.

I registered another domain today. I have no idea what I will do with it; no idea what to do with any of the domains I have. (There are 10 in all.) Each would be its own site but I can't afford that many. Hmm. Must give this more thought.

Tonight I believe I shall watch 1941's Ball of Fire with Gary Cooper and Barbara Stanwyck. I'm in the mood for a screwball comedy.

Note to self: Take more care with after work imbibing. Not feeling well today at all, at all. And I left my briefcase somewhere. Could be halfway to Guam now for all I know.

Good grief! I just took a look at how my mutual funds are doing. Take my advice: do NOT familarize yourself with the current status of your holdings without adequate medical supervision. And a change of pants.

I remember the Great Drought of Twenty Ought-Two because it was followed almost immediately by the Great Rain of Twenty Ought-Two or, as it's sometimes known, The Grieving. Having been so long clear and blue, easily earning its nickname of Big Sky, the heaven above Alberta has now turned grim and implaccable and very, very wet.

I don't wish any farmers ill, but since the drought conditions of June and most of July pretty much nixed any hope for this year's crop, I really don't see a need for all this water. Actually, farmers must feel as if they shat in the wrong person's breakfast cereal since now, having had crops wasted by lack of rain, what few stragglers remain alive find themselves now threatened by frost at night. Yes, frost. They have issued frost warnings. In early August.

If this isn't the result of global warning I suggest someone get off their ass and figure out what it is the result of because, frankly, it's fucked. And we're fucked along with it.

It feels like December. Really. It's another gray day. This has lasted longer than is decent. How can you go from 34 degree weather in one month (July) to single digits the next (August)? Only in Alberta. High country is not all it's cracked up to be. Living on the great central plain of North America means you're on a meteorological yo-yo. When the sun is out, it's hot as a griddle and you're the flapjack. When the sun ducks behind the clouds, the temperature plummets and you're the toe that needs amputating because it's so damn cold!

Actually, it's not so much the temperature that gets to you as the dull skies - a December ceiling with a wintry feeling. Of course, it's not nearly that bad out there. Not even close. But gazing at it from inside, looking out at a dreary street that seems to have been abandoned by humanity, it feels like December, the seasonal dung hole of every year.

Look ... someone just rode by on a bike, weeping and tearing at their hair. Okey ... maybe they didn't. But they might have! And who would have blamed them?

Could this day be more gloomy? Grey-brain skies lowering overhead. Endless weepy, drizzling water bulged clouds trundle by in a mass like an army of fatties and then there are the single digit temperatures (which perhaps sound more alarming than they are for those not using the Celsius measurement) … It all conspires to make the hapless worker wonder, “Why in the name of all that’s holy did I get out of bed today?”

It’s a question that admits no comforting answer.

Seeking refuge, I return home and immediately seek the cold comfort of beer and the Waterboys, Fisherman’s Blues to be precise. Meanwhile the freakin’ cat keeps running to the patio doors as if desperate to escape the confines of a warm domicile, yet as soon as the door is opened she sits back, considers the merits of outdoor activities, then flees as if from some unnameable horror.

It’s called a crappy day, cat. That’s all it is. And it, like haemorrhoids, will pass (though not before imposing a degree of discomfort to its luckless victim).

By the way, why does my word processor want to insert an “a” in haemorrhoids as if vowels, too, could be discomfiting inflammations?

I had thought I would redeem the day by picking up a DVD to help pass the evening hours but there was nothing to find that was interesting or, if interesting, not stupidly overpriced. So I’ll have to retreat to the collection. What will it be? Some contemporary flash and boom thingamabob like … I dunno. I forget the titles almost as soon as I see them. Maybe something classic, like a return to My Man Godfrey. Or, as I was thinking earlier today, perhaps something relatively recent yet, remarkably, with a story, like Passion Fish?

That’s where I’m leaning. Passion Fish. Have I mentioned I’m in love with Mary McDonnell? I am. But it’s a secret love. I haven’t told her. Thus, it’s an unrequited love. A tragedy of classic design. Ah me …

Life. Whacha gonna do?

Toodles.

Once again, a lengthy delay between jottings and precious little jotted when I do get around to it. However ... The weekend promises to be dull (as opposed to last weekend) and this may allow me to update, tweak, and generally make Piddleville less of hodge podge.

Of course, I'm said that MANY times before and accomplished sweet bugger all. But you never know ... Like they say, 117th time the charm.

Must go. Should be doing work now. Toodles!

Note: Looks like Blogger is back to proper functioning. The archive even updated properly.