Interesting weekend. Friday the 13th cunningly tricked me by actually being Saturday. Saturday, I hit the Glasgow Film Theatre in town at midday to see a cast and crew preview screening of a low-budget indie movie made locally, which was ... interesting. I won't name it, because frankly I didn't dig it at all, but that doesn't mean I don't respect the gigantic, enormous effort the person behind the film put into its creation, for which he deserves endless plaudits. But if ever there was an example of why a lot of people desperately need to learn how to actually write an effective, joined-at-the-dots story, then this was it ... Put it this way: it's an unfortunate fact most people who want to make movies often want to be story tellers second, and movie makers first, whereas the desire to tell a good story really, really needs to come first.
Friday 13th, in disguise as Saturday 14th, rattled its chains early, by causing major sound problems that meant the movie had to be restarted at least three times.
Passed through the river festival, which was basically bucketloads of boats moored by the SECC, including a three-masted ... schooner? Don't know. But it was a nice day for a quick wander with friends. Then out with a couple of other friends in the evening - when Friday 13th struck again! For the first time in ten years, I was turned away from a bar, along with a friend. Bar Buddha, in Sauchiehall Street, don't you know, and from the outside, let me tell you, it looked like a really classy place. Oh yes. Really ... classy.
One glance inside as we gave up and went to a nearby bar to wait on the others convinced myself and Guitar Andy that we'd had a lucky escape. But still ... ominous, I say. Ominous.
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