I am heating up a sparse omelet, which was consumed and eaten in the time it took me to write the descriptive terms of the omelet being sparse, and now I am fighting malaise and my shin and feet discomfort. I may lie down for an hour and try to return at seven my time, and this time stretches out like salt water taffy. My film analysis will also be sparse, for the time being. I could muse about Peter Cushing's camp in the 1968 Corruption which runs the mad doctor meme on the cheap, but is more interesting for its New Age subtexts, in the way that all British era films of this period have a curious Amicus-land quality to them that make them distinctive, with a metallic glint that doesn't quite capture the terminology which eludes me, whether or not these films are more spoofs than true horror films. Something like Paper Mask (1990) is actually much more chilling, and took me a bit of sparring with Google to dredge up from the depths: and shall be kept in reserve for the future.
Gear shift, with the reassurance of smoked trout oiling my fingertips of my typing hand, I had made a mental notation much earlier about the journalists Will Self and John Kaplan, and here is Self's much better promotional web log than I have the resources to do for myself:
His highlights on British rail only turn my thoughts to the British cripples who have to get around on these faded, gloried isles, but it is his essay in Granta, "False Blood", which compensates me for my Stephen King disdain; if my mind wasn't screaming bloody hell for coffee, I'd dive in this instant.
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