Okay, so I took stock of yesterday (my day off). And totaled up six extra hours of sleep. Six. That’s

• Two hours extra sleep while the Power Pug Princess muttered and snorted outside the bed room door.
• A three hour nap when exhaustion overtook me in the afternoon
• Going to bed an hour early.

I may never get anything done ever again.

Not entirely true. I did pay bills, go to the grocery store, and cook dinner.

Being an adult sucks.

But we knew that.

Also not entirely true, in the larger sense. Last Friday I had the pleasure of being that hour’s guest on Winnipeg Manitoba’s CJOB late night talk show, Nighthawk, when the subject was horror movies. Mostly I got to talk with host Geoff Currier until my head rattled, a few folks called in (and two nominated Pet Sematary as their fave, that was a surprise), and was sad to find the hour had ended so quickly. Geoff showed himself to be a Person of Superior Taste when he agreed with me that Videodrome and Eraserhead were two of the finest horror films of the 20th Century. Geoff said he hoped to hook up again, and I look forward to the opportunity.

Odd thing is, I likely owe that honor to something that has been a particular thorn in my side for some time. There is a section in my horribly torpid (heavy sigh) website, The Bad Movie Report, called The World’s Top 100 Horror Movies? This was a list some guy put together when the AFI was doing their “100 Greatest Movies of All Time” celebration. This fellow – his name and original website lost to antiquity – did an informal Web survey, and the resulting list was a terribly askew concoction. My page is a critique of that list and the taste of the people who had bothered to vote.

Not that you would know from the mail I get.

Somebody finds that page every three or four months, and posts it to a message board somewhere. I know this to be a case because I suddenly get a surge of e-mails informing me that I am an idiot and I really should know more about horror movies before I attempt to so a Website about them. This resulted in a box at the top of the list disclaiming any ownership the list, over and above what was already there in the preamble and subsequent commentary – not that this seemed to matter. My responses to these mails has, therefore, gotten more and more abrupt and acidic as time goes by.

But every time I make up my mind to delete the page, an opportunity like the radio show crops up to massage my ego. SO it looks like I had just better get used to being called an idiot. You’d think that, as I approach the half-century mark, I would already be used to that.

And you’d be wrong. Idiot.