Every year around this time, my friend Connie, who curates a monthly short-film fest, devotes one month’s program to zombies. Tonight was Zombie Night, and I went. One hour and 40 minutes of splattering, moaning and head-smashing. And that was just the audience. Ha, a joke. But seriously — making a film might make you a filmmaker, but it doesn’t make you a good one. I grew very weary of guns and guts, although there were some nice moments — a couple playing bedroom games, a little girl who cooks a meal (or ten) for a visiting ghoul. The point is, some people simply love zombies. And for that, many makeup artists will have long careers.
But I am weary. And I would like to go to bed. So here is a link or two, eh?
Best restaurant review I’ve read since maybe ever, of Guy Fieri’s 500-seat Times Square hog trough. I don’t want to spoil it for you — just read.
One of my former neighbors in Fort Wayne is a tattoo artist, emphasis on the artistry. Although I’m never going to get one myself, his work always seemed a cut above to me. The shop he co-owns with his brother has a new website, and as good as Dominick’s work is, his brother’s is amazing. If I could be assured my skin would never stretch or sag in any way, I’d consider getting that Bettie Page somewhere. And that’s the highest praise I’m capable of.
Time for bed. Night, all.
On edit: I forgot to include this appalling story, about a woman who died in an Irish hospital for want of the D&C that would have cleared the doomed, 17-week fetus she was in the process of miscarrying. I know the election’s over and the idiots lost, but let’s be reminded once more that these things happen all the time, and to refuse a woman in this position is the most repulsive sort of “pro-life” advocacy.