A Plague of References.
It’s been said that scientific experiments can reveal just as much about the observer as the observed. I like to think that my writing is a lot like that, that each review I post provides insight into both the film, and the film viewer. Consequently, I get a lot of emails from the FBI Sex Crimes division. While today’s instalment isn’t a particularly good film, I think that The Plague Monkeys may provide some of the greatest insights into my personality yet, in that it will reveal that I do not need to be watching movies about disease.
I already have enough trouble leaving the house. I no longer drive for fear of disfiguring my face in a car crash and having to be in a Cameron Crowe movie. I haven’t taken a cab since Taxi Driver showed my what drivers do to people who diddle pre-teens, and a lifetime of watching fear-mongering and vaguely racist American news broadcasts has forced me to request a white delivery guy every time I order pizza, virtually guaranteeing that the tomato sauce is three-quarters saliva. What I do not need is to see a crappy documentary about getting Ebola or Marburg and then shitting out my own intestines or vomiting through my tear ducts or whatever else happens to you when you breath air in Africa. I also don’t need to have my intelligence insulted by having the film narrated by Glenn Close, like I’m going to remember that she played a doctor in Outbreak but forget that she’s not a real scientist. What I do need is someone in the house to keep me from duct-taping all the oxygen out of my apartment and suffocating to death. But, apparently, being unable to tell the difference between fantasy and reality renders means that I’m not actually dating Leah Luv, so I’m pretty much on my own in that department.
Since the floodgates are open, I think it’s time to divulge some more information about the real Ash.
I watch way too much TV. This is probably because I saw Videodrome twenty times when I was a kid, so I think that if I obsesses over enough cable channels, my stomach will turn into a vagina and save me some hooker money.
I like watching C-Span, because I get to see American politicians refer to Nazism at the slightest opportunity. It has led me to coin the term “Hitlerier”, as in “George Bush turned out to be Hilterier than I thought”, and “I wish the train to Toronto ran on a Hitlerier schedule”.
Whenever too many people are reading the site, I make a lot of jokes about hate crime and killing children, designed to weed out the weak and the humourless. However, just because I think it’s funny, doesn’t mean that I’m kidding. Please, call the police.
Oh, and if you’re with the FBI, my email is here.