In the process of making a feeble attempt to clean the house, I found two shoebox-sized Rubbermaid bins filled with Chick tracts. Halloween is coming up.
You're damn right I'm going to.
Previous companion-of-the-female-persuasion #2 found humor in them and hoarded a supply of them gleaned off her mother. I don't know if she ever had any grandoise plans for them like passing them out to hobos, or whether like so many things, they're just something to collect that you promise you'll do something with later but never do. I've been there. Soda bottle pull rings. Puppets. Condoms. Gideon Bibles. Home-recorded tapes of Charlie Brown specials and movies. College degrees.
I figure I'm pretty safe from enraged parents. When I went trick-or-treating, I seldom remembered who gave out what unless that particular house was a self-service or "take one" sort of deal. Plus I'm going to be real sneaky about it and hold a bowl of full-sized Zero bars in one hand while I slip 'em the evangelizing goods with the other.
On a more somber note, I'm not sure what to think about the new Rambo. I don't hear any Jerry Goldsmith scoring in the music of the trailer, which worries me. A lot of the crucial elements are gone. No Trautman. No real knife. From what I can tell, there won't be a custom Jimmy Lile/Gil Hibben job to be found--apparently he forges his own blade ala that ridiculous made-to-be-broadcast-on-USA-network Tommy Lee Jones/Benicio Del Toro movie "The Hunted." I may go to see it, just out of curiosity if that scene where Johnny-boy reduces someone to constituent particles and viscera with a vehicle-mounted machine gun made the final cut. That was kind of shockingly amusing, but I doubt that "Saving Private Ryan" style blood'n'gore will save the film.
Remember when sequels used to be fun, shameless rehashes? You wish they hadn't been made, but you could live with them; now not even the canon of well-established characters is safe anymore. Overzealous directors and their fanfic-writing cronies make for strange bedfellows.
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