Or... Yanni?

It must be nearly Xmas. I had my first phone call wondering if we sold any John Tesh CDs today.

Community Planning.

I think this may have been the problem with the old house.

Cat Hode.

As the cold weather hits I've been entering my standard hibernation strategems: eat more salt and fat... rent/watch more movies and television.

My friendly little iPod Touch has taught me that downloading and watching the first 10 episodes of Season 4 Battlestar Galactica is a snap. If you hold it up close to your face it's still like big screen tv.

Other catch-ups have included renting and watching season 2 of Dexter, then charging the iPod with the first few episoded of season 3.

Borrowed and watched the entire run of the British comedy Spaced. It stars and is made by many of the folks behind Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz. Essentially it's a slacker comedy/drama that's obsessed with comics, sci-fi and whip-pans.

Finally, when I was bringing back Dexter to Jumbo I thought I'd give a few of the horror titles a spin. There are so many little umbrella imprints like Dimension Extreme and Ghost House that have been pushing stuff out... and though I'm in front of a computer most nights I never think to research any of these titles. So each rental is a semi-informed crap shoot.

The first one, which I watched last night, is called End of the Line, made by Montrealer Maurice Devereaux. It concerns the subway, the apocalypse and a religious cult that comes on like Jehovah Witnesses gone all Warriors after a pager blow-up.

The acting and effects were pretty decent for a low budget effort, though the run and hide plotline wasn't particularly suspenseful.

The opening of the movie had an effective little boo scene that nonetheless made me realize that I'm a little too versed in filmic language. The main female character is "attacked" in the subway but it's revealed to be a dream sequence as she quickly finds herself submerged in bubbly red liquid; but then we're jumped over to a scene of her in the shower. What's missing is the (apparently) obligatory moment of her sitting up in her bed, clutching her blanket to her bosom. I was surprised how much the exclusion actually impacted on the flow of the narrative.

Next up I have a new Dario Argento to watch. I'll let you know.

Things to do in November when you're not dead.