Weekend, with kino goodness.

I had a mostly calm weekend.

Friday evening became another trip to Portobello beach with a bonfire, burgers, garlic bread, wine, and excellent company as the light faded away. Back soon after midnight this time, though.

Saturday involved shopping and then spending the evening in a couple of pubs - one very salubrious and the other Opium - with a bekilted darthstoo. It suited him, I think, and it was good to see him (the rest of you to take a subtle hint at this point). Stoo's friend Jake and some of his friends were there, and they were very interesting too. Linguistics came up a lot, and therefore Y Goddoddin, apostrophes, and all the usual nonsense. It was also good to see purpledonna and ultravioletman and chat to them, which doesn't happen often enough. We also got approached by a couple of blonde 20ish women at one point, which was flattering if also untempting. They wandered off after a few minutes. I can only assume they were hoping we'd be amusingly desperate.

On Sunday I took the bike frame down to the warren under the station that that bike project use. I was worried for a moment that I'd never find my way out again. On the way back I got mugged by Avalanche for upwards of several pounds, and only left with vidos of Koyaanisqatsi, Powaqqatsi and Westway To The World for my trouble. I watched the first of these on Sunday late afternoon, which I think was the first time I've seen it since the Park Room, and highly excellent it was too. I must try to see Naqoyqatsi at some point. It doesn't seem to have made a big splash on public release.

Tonight I went to see Festival with Lara and Seth. Highly excellent it is, too, but not recommended for people who only like action films. No explosions, and only one car crash. Many laughs, though (often malicious), an acceptable amount of nudity, and nearly everyone ends up unhappy. My kind of film (except that it could have done with more swearing). Go see it. It's about various people - several members of the jury for the comedy award, some comedians, other performers and assorted associated - on the Fringe. And if anyone knows where the comedy awards scene is actually shot, could they please tell us? It's about the only setting we don't walk through regularly.

On the way back we were repeatedly passed on the links - right near one of the scenes in Festival was shot, actually - by a bat. I don't remember the last time I saw one of them in Edinburgh. I probably just haven't been paying attention.

Also, thanks to princealbert for linking to this dodgy flash animation (worksafe apart from some swearing and being flash animation, though) advertising . . . well, a real record that you can actually buy. If you decide against watching it or don't want to be surprised the main site is here.

reddragdiva has asked that word be spread of the Wikipedia article on Space Opera as a source of Scientology's esoteric doctrines. It's well worth a read.

Papers

The newspapers have gone mad today. The Daily Abcess, if you can bear to look at a copy or find their webshite, has a banner headline about how the bombers were dodgy dole-scrounging illegal immigrants with incurable bedwetting (I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP. Except for the bit about bedwetting, of course). By tomorrow they'll probably have realized that Menezes was foreign and that they hate him for it. Look forward to a banner "He had it coming" headline.

The Daily Hate, apparently, is little better.

The Scotsman has stuff on metal giraffes, The Venue closing (we're not going to have any live shows in this town if this goes on) and Iain Banks answering questions about whisky on Mastermind.

Humphries: How many drinks have you had, Mr Banks?

Banks: Hic!

The Grauniad, by contrast with its aspirations towards being a hard-hitting socially responsible media organ, has an article about a foul-mouthed macaw with a habit of saying "Thank you, big boy,"

When the local mayor and a vicar visited,

Instead of the Benedicite ("Oh all ye fowls of the air, bless ye the Lord"), he told the mayor: "Fuck off," before turning to the vicar and saying: "You can fuck off too."

The sanctuary's owner, Geoff Grewcock, 55, said yesterday: "To their credit they didn't take offence and laughed it off - and luckily so did two policemen who were told: "And you can fuck off, you wankers."

This morning, I woke strangely from an odd dream. It had involved my mum, my dad's old Spitfire (Triumph, not Supermarine - it wasn't fast enough, in the same way that I can never outrun anything when I'm dreaming), and having a fling with someone in a different city, who for no readily apparent reason had a bunch of people install themselves in her back bedroom by pushing past me when the door was open, and claiming that it had been wide open so they'd wandered in. I called the police, and the fire brigade arrived to evict them.

I was woken (well, mostly-woken) by the radio, and my nose was a bit blocked. I was half-convinced that I'd been woken by the phone ringing. Every time I sniffed, I could hear in the sound of the sniff a small voice saying "pick up".