My old shattered heel and torn ligament injury is swollen and the foot is purple and betraying my limp like a low-budget zombie. Leaning on my broke right knee ain't helping none neither. I think Doc Marten finally beat me. Today, I put my new $150 kicks to the side and put on an old pair of dusty mustard green shoes which were convalescing under a tote bag in my closet. The Docs mock me.
Meanwhile, I saw LAND OF THE DEAD and WAR OF THE WORLDS. Albeit authentic Romero, DEAD had a few good ideas but the B-movie execution and acting [which I usually forgive in most horror, especially Romero horror] sucked worse than a bad John Carpenter film. Surprisingly, I liked WAR. It messed me up -- all that carnage. The effects were chilling. The ideas, close to home. Naturally, both films made me think about 9/11, THE DIARY OF ANNE FRANK, the recent London bombings, and my eventual demise. Everything is about control and lack thereof. I have it on good authority I won't blow up from a bomb. My fate is to die by car accident, checking out some chicks 22-year old ass while riding my bike. Then, we'll see if I rise and troll for human chum because there's "no room in Hell."