classics and poor relations

I was going to write a treatise on the prescience apparent in Stephen King's The Running Man (the book, not the movie) in reference to the increased cancer rates near the shipping channel that goes past Houston as well as the rise of reality television and/or Jerry Springer. Unfortunately, my browser crashed, thus sparing you a description of the final scene in the book, which if you haven't read it, is remarkably similar to events in 2001 about which we do not make jokes, except that there were intestines and a rude gesture involved in the book.

So mostly what I learned today is that Snakes on a Plane is a bit like a cross between Die Hard and Animal House, but you'd expect that to be good. We were expecting stupid, which, as it turned out, was aiming a little high.