I’m sitting at my desk working on my book, and an email pops up. It’s a birthday greeting (my birthday is only 10 minutes away as I type this) from Pepsi. They remembered. Friends and family, they’re fallible–they can forget. Not Pepsi, by God. I must’ve signed up for some lameass contest months and months ago, and my time-delayed reward is an email Hallmark moment from them. I don’t have the heart to tell Pepsi that I’ve forsaken Pepsi One for Coke Zero. Not on my birthday, at least…
I watched “War of the Worlds” last night, crossing my self-imposed Tom Cruise picket line. It was awesome–white knuckle great–for the first 75 minutes. Then it got really, really, awful. If you haven’t seen it and do end up renting it, enjoy the ride up until the scene where Tim Robbins appears. Once you see his mug, quickly eject the DVD and call it a day; it’s all downhill and impossibly stupid from that point forward. “War of the Worlds” could’ve been great, but the way the movie wraps itself up in the last 30-45 minutes makes it merely “okay.”
Since I’m hardly ever in the Loop anymore, a direct result of being fired from a Loop-based office, I’ve found that making my pilgrimages to Graham Crackers Comics has become almost impossible. I’m doing mail-order from the store now, and expecting a three-week motherload of books to arrive tomorrow. What better time to dive into boundless dorkdom, than one’s own birthday?