Flew the puddle jumper home yesterday. As I zoomed over Boston, I waved to Larry and said “Buh Bye Boston, Buh Bye!”

Once home I crawled into bed and watched the newly arrived dvd, Candy. If I had a DVD library, I would place Candy in between Barbarella and The Magic Christian. Myra Breckinridge wouldn’t be too far away. What can one possibly say about a movie whose beginning scene features Ringo Starr (portraying a Mexican gardener) who rapes the lead character, Candy, on a pool table while Richard Burton, right next to them, makes out with a porcelain doll? The thing is, it gets progressively weirder. James Coburn as a sadistic surgeon, Walter Mathau as a paranoid general, Marlon Brando as a long-haired, sari-wearing guru, and John Astin in a dual role of staid father and dirty uncle. Yes it was disturbing and sexist and disgusting but it was also pretty innocent. So with Candy down, now all I have to do it find a copy of Skidoo.

Here are the next movies on my Netflix queue: The Night of the Following Day, Water Drops On Burning Rocks, Swept Away, The Women, Victim, One, Two, Three, De Sade, Sailor Who Fell from Grace, Charles Bronson: Vital Hits, The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant, Querelle, And Now … Ladies and Gentlemen, The World of Henry Orient… and 150 others.