Honestly: I never sleep. What's sleep? Bloody pointless, is what. Even when the things that usually keep me from sleeping aren't around, there's always still one more thing between me and pillow. The wheel never stops turning, does it Badger?

How ya doin', Internet? I'll tell you one thing, the Christmas season is not lacking for things to do. Movies with Matty Price. Lunch with Langs. Defenestration with D-Coc. (If only.) Saturday night the North Toronto posse had its sort-of annual reunion; we went to the cash-grab formerly known as Marché and pretended it was a semi-formal. (Mark and I even wore suits, mostly because I wanted to wear my new suit again.) We visited the spitting man, looked for the pornography (but did not find it), and foodwise, the girl and I had waffles and sushi. Together. Take that, planet. Your rules? I spit on them.

Then me and Sarafina went to see Sweeney Todd, and it was pretty much excruciating from frame one. Well, at the least, from frame one it was clear that this thing had so completely missed the boat that the fact that frame one includes a boat was pretty fucking funny after the fact. Yesterday afternoon I opened a vein on the bastard, and wrote what is not so much a review as an utter renunciation:

"One of the things I like least about my job is the ocasional seeming need to psycho-deconstruct filmmakers who, in the paraphrased words of Sick Boy, "had it, then lost it, then it was gone forever." Doing this head job is (of course) pointless, because really, how the fuck do I know what went wrong with Tim Burton? I don't know anything about him. He might look at his recent work with the same mortified contempt that I hold for it, and spend his lunch hours crying uncontrollably in an increasingly small series of bathrooms."

Rest of the deal is here, and I am done with Tim Burton. I will never see another of his films. How sad is that? The dude was one of the three filmmakers who, when I was a teenager, made me want to spend the rest of my life in the movies. And now he's just an asshole. Fuck you Tim Burton. I'm off the ride.

I drove Sarah to Brantford yesterday in my dad's new Land Rover, which, after three years of the Smrt car, felt appreciably like stretching my legs, though I could have done with more highway drive time. Got home and nipped over to the Brown Family Christmas, which kicks off the 96-hour eat-a-thon that is the next few days of my life. Actually I did all right, eating-wise. I think my stomach has shrunk. I also kicked Trevor's ass in the annual roundtable game (it was "Things" this time), although he then gave me some payback on the lightning-round follow-up.

It was warm and rainy when I woke up yesterday, and cold and lonely when I got home. Two more things kept me up late, one very good, one not so good, and I don't remember sleep, though I have faith that it was there.

"She represents the Lollipop Guild." - Mark
"The Lollipop Guild?" - Trevor
"The Lollipop Guild." - Mark