That’s neither here nor there – and only vaguely correlative to the upcoming delights in this post – but doesn’t he? I don’t know much about thyroid cancer except I DO NOT WANT IT. No, thyroid cancer, no! Bad cancer! Down! Off! Bad!
According to some article in Esquire, it (via a surgery obviously) took away Roger’s ability to talk, eat, and drink. Pretty much the only reason I get out of bed every day – and keeping me off the edges of super tall bridges – is the pleasure derived from eating, talking, and drinking. Anyway, kudos to Roger for keeping a pistol out of his misshapen mouth. God knows I may not be so courageous.
In other news, on the flight back from the Deep South (I’ve been gone literally, thus my blog-related disappearance. That and a general lack of anything useful to say). So anyway, on the flight the in-flight magazine had these little synopses of upcoming new releases, so I though I’d share with you for your entertainment planning purposes…with slight edits. (My comments in brackets.)
THE BEAVER (groan): Jodie foster directs and stars opposite Mel Gibson (double groan) who will speak only with a beaver puppet on his hand (Are you f*cking kidding me? Insufferable. I’d rather make out with Roger Ebert.)
MIDNIGHT IN PARIS (perhaps): In Woody Allen’s (yes!) latest film, Owen Wilson (no, no, no!) finds magic (still no) as he wanders through the city of lights (Is every city the city of something? What’s Cleveland?.)
EVERYTHING MUST GO (if you say so): Will Ferrell (meh.) plays a relapsed alcoholic who loses his job and gets kicked out of the house (so it’s a feel-good movie, I take it), only to spend four days on the front lawn trying to sell all of his possessions. (Why do funny people feel the need to “stretch”? Play a grown man who thinks he’s an elf or a drunken fool streaking all by himself, and we’re behind you all the way. Force us to endure two hours of you playing an aging comic unable to connect with audiences, and we’ll come after you like a pack of wolves.)
Happily, I think these are some damn positive signs that I might actually be able to sell a movie script. Hell, my dog might be able to sell a movie script.
I just proposed the following as a book concept and got shot down, but maybe it would work on the big screen?
I CRIED THAT I HAD NO SHOES
Tragicomedy about a woman with a shoe fetish who gets addicted to snorting bath salts (or whatever it is they do with them) and accidentally chews off her own feet. There can be a lovable mutt too. And maybe a sexy neighbor who’s both sympathetic and totally grossed out.
(If you ask me, it’s the kind of role Natalie Portman or Ann Hathaway could really sink their teeth into. Yuk yuk yuk!)