Well, this is gonna be one hell of a summer.

Yesterday I covered the Women of Comics II symposium at the Paradise Comic Con for blogTO. It was pretty damned enjoyable I gotta say - way more than the convention floor itself, which, aside from meeting Georges Jeanty (and drooling on him a bit) and having a decent conversation with my new personal hero Faith Erin Hicks, wasn't exactly my air-quotes "thing." Incidentally: have I met Faith Erin Hicks before? I really feel like I have, but I can't place it. If any reader can twig me on this thing, please inform. It might just be because her name is fun to say.

Then Matty Price and I hit Ocean's Thirteen for some bank and... well sweet fucking hell I thought I didn't have anything relevant to say about that thing, but apparently I did, because I said it in review form:

The filmmakers have stripped the requirements of the Ocean's franchise to such a spare extreme that this one isn't just running on fumes, but is also turning around and convincing you that those fumes are honest, hard-won gasoline from the vast oil fields of Iraq. The flick - intentionally or no, though I'd gamble on the former - acts as an almost cruel contretemps to the risible "one for us, one for them" philosophy of indie vs. mainstream filmmaking that has plagued Hollywood for decades.

Rest of the review is here.

Got home and stumbled into a ginormous party that Teen Girl Squad was throwing for Rachel, and decided to stay (there was rum). Rachel, who shot off a fire extinguisher like she was play-acting Ghostbusters in the back yard and covered the entire neighbourhood in Spielbergian fog, Rachel who took her clothes off not once but twice, Rachel who turned me into an inadvertent drug mule. And did I mention the rum? Yeah I'm pretty much calling it the best party ever held in this house, with the exception of the Pirate Party, because nothing will ever actually defeat the Pirate Party.

Then not a lot of sleep, then a really good yoga, now peanut butter and laundry and sunshiney yesness.