It wasn't a good movie. Let me say that right up front. It was, in fact, the inverse of a good movie in every concievable way.
But it was aware of its own meta and its own badness and the badness of its source material in a sort of delightful way, much like the first Charlie's Angels movie. And if one is in the mood for fart jokes and boob jokes and car chases and Willie Nelson delivering bad jokes in a stiff monotone and Burt Reynolds chewing scenery like he hasn't been fed in a month, and one really needs to nurture one's inner seven year old... well, you know. It wasn't as deep and meaningful, say, as Harold and Kumar go to White Castle. But I don't regret the matinee price.
Jessica Simpson was surprisingly likeable. Who could have guessed?
And I am so in love with one of the bloopers shown at the end. The one where Seann William Scott figures out, to his own shock and horror, just how stupid his character is, in fact, supposed to be.
I finished the Pelikan book, which I somewhat wanted to be... deeper. The last chapter satisfied me most. It waxes philosophical. And I started Christopher Marlowe: A Renaissance Life, which wins me over completely before I even start reading by virtue of the timeline in the frontispiece. A timeline. With facts in it. Documented facts. And not conjectures, suppositions, and urban legends. (Those are my job, dammit.)
Oh, Constance Brown Kuriyama, how do I love thee already? Let me count the ways.
Now let's see if the book is any good.