I shouldn't cook on Fridays, or something.

While making dinner tonight, I shredded the fat of my hand with a slicer. Dumb. This is now the second cooking related accident I've had on a Friday, compared to being a paragon of blade safety the rest of the week. Very odd.

Last night, instead of finishing off the tree, I ended up staring slackjawed at the spectacle of a 1983 film, Cocaine and Blue Eyes. Your standard issue pseudo-pilot oriented TV movie level film. The star, O. J. Simpson. Looking for the real killers. If you ever get to see this, I defy you to get through this without thinking that, because there isn't anything else to think about in the movie. It's almost completely plotless. And ironically, O. J. seems to know this. He's just walking through scenes, stuff happens near him, people don't really give him any information, his mere presence just seems to drive people to do stupid things. And then someone asks if he was a boxer, or a basketball player, or whatever. It's the sort of movie written to be attacked by Crow T. Robot. O.J.'s car gets mangled by thugs, he'll have to get a rental from Hertz! Lots of low-hanging fruit to pick. Recommended only for that purpose.