Back from Bristol Comics 2002, back from lying around Janes flat for a blessed day and back to hot water in a bath in Bath. Back from watching "The Man Who Wasn't There", the Coen's recent noir pastiche.

I'm increasingly thinking that the Coens should be added to my sacred-cow kicking list, because as tasteful and distracting I can find much of their work, it's simply fails to resonate on any level with the required frequency. The fact that I've found myself stock-piling epigrams by the kilogram about them is always a good sign - clearly a hatred without sub-wildean witticisms to decorate with isn't worth the effort. Things like "The Coens make intellectual films for people who really aren't that clever" and "The Coens make comedies for people who prefer to go "Ah - yes. Right" rather than laugh, and so on and so forth.

Beside the point. I'm about to get properly stuck into Secret Project Number One (aka Luna 16), which I'll elaborate upon another time.

To work.