This won’t be much of a blog post. I spent most of the evening working on a rush assignment and my brain is already lounging on the sofa in front of the TV. But check out this Slate article written by a man who’s preparing to walk away from the Internet for a few months. I admire his determination, but not the goal itself. Sure, I’ve spent countless hours in front of my computer, but I’m more often than not having a good time doing whatever it is I’m doing. The severity of my disability has probably made the Internet even more attractive to me than it might otherwise be; I don’t need any assistance when I’m at my computer, which can’t be said for most of my other daily activities (except maybe for sleeping and being a smartass). My life would definitely be poorer if I suddenly had to give up the Internet and the independence that comes with it .

One of the truly wonderful things about the Internet is its ability to foster collaboration without regard to traditional notions of “place”. Some of you have probably already seen the YouTube video of the virtual choir singing “Lux Aurumque.” Nearly 200 people separately recored their individual pieces, which were then combined into a single choral piece. I’m sure that some technical wizardry was necessary to clean up and mix the various audio tracks, but I’m not sure that’s any different than what happens in a recording studio. We probably don’t need to see video of the conductor mugging for the camera, but otherwise the result is lovely.

I went to see Clash of the Titans because I was in the mood for some rampaging CGI monsters. And I got about thirty minutes of that, but I also got about an hour of expository padding that slowed the film’s narrative pacing to a crawl, particularly in the first half. Things start with momentum; we learn that the Greek gods are irked with humans for thumbing their noses at Mount Olympus after putting up with the gods’ immortal shenanigans for millennia. We’re also introduced to Perseus (Sam Worthington), the product of one such shenanigan that Zeus perpetrated on a mortal queen. Perseus is left for dead as an infant and rescued by a kindly fisherman. Perseus comes of age in unremarkable fashion until his family is killed in the crossfire of a skirmish between the god Hades (Ralph Fiennes with a creepy beard) and the uppity citizens of Argos. Perseus then decides that Hades needs a good ass-kicking.

But the ass-kicking takes its own sweet time in getting set up. We have to sit through a lot of male bonding and listen to some skinny prophet of doom blather on before the giant scorpions start hitting the fan. And then it’s more exposition until Medusa shows up to do some ass-kicking of her own. I don’t have a problem with the film’s by the numbers approach or its cardboard characters, but it would have been nice if the movie had streamlined the distance between the numbers. Still, it’s got giant scorpions.

As you might expect from the title, Hot Tub Time Machine is a goofy but entertaining move that doesn’t aspire to be much more than a foul-mouthed ode to youth and the Eighties. Three friends and a geeky nephew go on a weekend trip to a winter resort where they hope to briefly recapture the invincibility of their high school years. The resort is now a dilapidated mess, but a bromantic romp in the hot tub adjoining their room somehow hurls the foursome back in time to 1986 to relive the sundry youthful indiscretions they committed during another weekend at the same resort. And from then on, it’s pretty much all leg warmers, feathered hair, time travel clichés, tits, drugs, and nostalgia set to the beat of Eighties cock rock and New Wave.

The script doesn’t do much that’s fresh or outrageous, but the leads (John Cusack, Rob Corddry, and Craig Robinson) play well enough off of each other and bring a certain amount of charm to a plot that is patently ridiculous. Things get a little creepy when we watch these thirtysomething (in the eyes of the audience) guys moon over girls who are supposed to be in high school, but that could be part of the movie’s whole gross-out strategy. And speaking of gross-outs, I’m still cringing at the memory of a certain scene involving a catheter. So very, very wrong.

I really need to get a webcam so I can get in on the whole chatroulette thing before it gets all boring and corporate. I want to find out how many people will believe me when I tell them I’m Stephen Hawking’s estranged kid brother. Or perhaps I can acquire a minor degree of fame as “that guy” on chatroulette–the one with the tube in his neck who just sits there reciting dirty limericks. Or maybe I’ll just start screaming for help and beg them to call the police. The possibilities are endless.