Blogger Is a Cruel God

What hath Blogger wrought? I had plenty to say to you guys yesterday, and then, at the end of three mini-film reviews and a buncha supernova birthday shout-outs, Blogger just ate my shit. Today is like the morning after a nasty fight; I'm extending the olive branch to Blogger, but how do I know it isn't going to bite my hand off again? So let's be brief about the last 48 hours. In fact, in honor of my amazing friend Siobhan Adcock's newly inked contract for her second book, to be titled Hipster Haikus, I'm just gonna keep these short and sweet:

Yesterday's Birthdays...

Russell Crowe grew up.
At least, he turned 41.
Still has tantrums, though.

Russell gets two gifts.
He got hitched two years ago.
(He was once my man.)

66 candles
for Francis Ford Coppola.
Now find your old gifts!

Props to Bill Butler.
He shot The Conversation
and, the next year, Jaws.

It would be lowest blasphemy for me
To rush through Sandy Powell's day of birth
In merely seventeen beats. Clearly she
Is the best costume designer on Earth.
Only the august sonnet form can pay
The tribute Sandy merits from us all.
Did you not see all that Goldmine lamé?
Did Far from Heaven not hold you in thrall?
Edward II was only a sign
Of Orlando's finery. Our Tilda
Never dressed better; nor did Tom or Brad.
That Shakespeare Oscar belonged to Goldmine,
Though Gwyneth looked like Rita in Gilda.
Sandy is just the best we've ever had.


This Week's Movies...

There once was an actress named Joan. Like a light in the darkness she shone. The scripts might be silly (Upside's willy-nilly) But is there any film that Joan can't own?

Sin City is a dire affair, Without a brain and without a care. I've been so excited, But this film's benighted, And more sordid than I could bear.

Here is some news that's more fun to hear: Off the Map is the best of the year. So deft and so clear, So shrewd but so dear, And Joan Allen's acting remains without peer.