"You've got these runway lights, and you are looking at them, and they're saying: 'Come to me, come to me. I will let you land.' They're like the sirens of the ocean." —I was talking to a friend the other night and I brought up my embarrassing but shockingly firm superstitious belief that we are all born with so many airline flights to our name and when we reach our appointed number that is when our plane goes down. It's an absurd theory on its face—the idea that not only is there some higher agency which controls our fate but that it also keeps a ledger of our travel arrangements—but [...]
Today's lesson from the Tao of Horror: If a B horror flick has the world's most fuckable star and the only screenwriter who can A) show up in her own movies and B) be recognized when she does, is it still a B horror flick? Yes, my people. Yes. Case in point: Jennifer's Body, which, despite a level of media attention unusual for horror openings (attributable to said star and said screenwriter), bombed on opening weekend, not even scraping $7 million. (For comparison, All About Steve did $13 mill, and critics likened it to perforating your eyelids with safety pins for two hours.)
"A group of Sunni militants attending a suicide bombing training class at a camp north of Baghdad were killed on Monday when their commander unwittingly conducted a demonstration with a belt that was packed with explosives, army and police officials said."