I've been posting for nine weeks straight, and there is a temptation to say my recent viewing of the third season of Batman (1966-1968), and specifically the odious episode "Nora Clavicle and the Ladies' Crime Club*" for my inability to put a coherent thought together this week.
It may that simple. I have committed myself to a weekends' worth of consumption, and probably need such a period to recharge my batteries. The truth is, I've got a lot of projects in the hopper nearly ready. Book 3 of my Orson series is proceeding along nicely, if slowly. I did manage to figure out the title, though: The Once and Future Orson Welles. I've also begun developing another project that I'm not quite ready to talk about, but will start to move Party Now, Apocalypse Later into more multimedia projects as time goes on. For this blog, I do have some thoughts (read: an ongoing identity crisis**) about this year's election. I'll also probably move on from my recent entries about local movie theaters, and get into that other phenomena of cinephilia: creation. I may yet read a book again and offer a review or three. Watch this space for more.
* The entire year, while fortified by the refreshing addition of Yvonne Craig as Barbara Gordon/Batgirl (one of the only contributions of the show to the ongoing Batman-mythos), is stagnated by a pervasive cheapness, and an episode like "Nora Clavicle..." wherein a villainous women's rights activists usurps Commissioner Gordon's position, and hires only women to staff the police department. As they trade cooking tips and fret about ruining their outfits, the city descends into chaos. The crisis is only neutralized by Batman, Robin, and Batgirl, guiding an army of robotic mice via the use of penny whistles. Oy. 1968, am I right? Sure, it had the Apollo 8 moonshot, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and Planet of the Apes. But there was a lot to complain about, too! Like wars, the entire city of Chicago, and the tragic unfunny-ing of the Caped Crusaders.
** Settle down. I'm not voting for Donald Trump, or for that matter anyone whose name doesn't rhyme with Smillary Blinton.