I could tell you about the weekend, but I like you too much. There were ups and downs, highlights and lowlights. I will inform you that a trip to the Hustler Hollywood store was made in the wee hours of Friday/Saturday. It was not nearly as sleazy as I’d expected (hoped?). I liked how their DVDs were sorted into their own Blockbuster-esque categories: Gonzo, Artcore, etc.

I finished Moonraker on Saturday. It was another good read even though the plot was kind of flimsy. England would just let a private citizen built a nuclear missile? And wouldn’t halt the mission when a Scotland Yard agent turned up dead? (By the way, the movie has absolutely nothing to do with the novel. Nobody goes to space. There’s no “Jaws.”)

But the writing was so quick and direct that you don’t really notice some of the questionable plot. You’re just along for the ride. I am however waiting to read one of the Bond novels where Bond is actually successful in his original plan and isn’t captured by the villain before he can put the screws to him. For all the brilliant knowledge this super-spy supposedly possesses, he certainly relies on luck to get his ass out of the fire quite a bit. Actually, that’s a broad stroke. In Moonraker, Bond does make his escape due to his cleverness and not like in Live and Let Die or Casino Royale where it’s due solely to good fortune.

I started reading Paul Feig’s Superstud over the weekend. It catalogs Feig’s awkward adolescence. It’s actually a touch depressing. I’m sure it’s hilarious reading for a woman, but for me, I kept thinking, “Oh my God, boys are so gross and pathetic.” You just want to reach out across the decades and tell those kids it’ll be all right. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s the pathetic, secret masturbators that turn out all right and don’t turn into jacked-up date rapists. In which case, yay masturbators!

Er…