It Was The Best Of List, It Was The Worst Of List. Everyone else is writing about their favorite and least favorite films of the year, so why not me? A few films in 2005 gave me hours of thoughtful and exciting entertainment. And a few gave me hives.
There are oodles of movies I saw and disliked in 2005. Some I disliked a lot, like Dark Water and Bewitched, and some I disliked a LOT, like Boogeyman and Alone In The Dark. (It just wouldn't be a Worst Of list without a Uwe Boll film, would it?)
And then there are the ones that I actively hated—yes, even more than Boll's bollocks. These films were the ones that actually hurt to watch. I squirmed, I scowled, I scolded myself for not being more discerning. I'm part of the problem.
C.R.A.Z.Y. makes the "give me back my three hours" list. An awful, plot-free, pretentious, and trite film. I only stayed past hour 1 because I was there with friends. I only stayed past hour 2 because I was their lift home.
Diary of a Mad Black Woman is on my "Jesus, would you just shut up about Jesus already" list. Minute after painful minute mixing God Is GREAT messages with fart jokes.
Kicking and Screaming tops the "aren't comedies supposed to be funny?" list. Humorless garbage that any 8 year old would have found insultingly puerile. Well, any 8 year old except the one who wrote it.
Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sucks, like the two toy commercial prequels before it, is dead to me. Mention it not.
There was also a litany of films I didn't see that I'm sure would have made the Worst Of list if I'd been suckered into seeing them. 2005 was the year of Miss Congeniality 2, and Supercross. It was the year of Elektra and Fantastic Four. It was the year of Doom. It was the year of The Ringer.
Tell me again how piracy is the reason movie revenues were down?
Compared to 2004, 2005 was The Year Of Suck as far as movies. Weekend after weekend, regurgitated tripe was shunted in and back out of cinemas as fast as possible to make room for the next ladle of slop.
But as always there were some bright spots. There were some films worth watching, worth keeping.
I tried to come up with a Top Ten list, but I couldn't. There just weren't two handfuls of fingers worth of great films last year. Frankly, I padded my list to come up with seven, one of which I just saw today so perhaps I'll yank it back off the list once it stays with me a while.
But here are 2005's Moderately Magnificent Seven:
- Oldboy
- Kiss Kiss Bang Bang
- Me and You and Everyone We Know
- King Kong
- Good Night, and Good Luck
- Sky High
- Kung Fu Hustle
Some of those will make the Big Boys' lists of best films, and some won't. But everyone is wrong except me. Oldboy was the best film of the year: original, interesting, shocking, daring, exciting, intelligent…damn near perfect. It has the single best fight scene I've ever seen on film, and it has a double-whammy ending that truly rewards attentive viewers.
There were a handful of films that I enjoyed and which almost made my list, but the above seven seemed far enough distant from the pack to deserve their own list. I'd give "alphabetical honorable mention" for 2005 to:
- The Beat That My Heart Skipped
- Crash
- A History of Violence
- Millions
- Murderball
- Schultze Gets the Blues
- Serenity
- Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit
Partly for those of you keeping track at home, but mostly for my own notes, there were a few films I didn't see last year that may retroactively make my Best Of list once I do see 'em: The Best Of Youth; Memories of Murder; Godzilla Final Wars; Breakfast on Pluto; and Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada.
I'm not above a little Russian revisionism, so if you come back to this page in a few months don't be surprised if the Moderately Magnificent Seven has expanded to the Predominantly Pleasing Eight, the Substantially Satisfactory Nine, or even the By And Large Bearable Ten.
2006 Jan 05 // Link // E-mail
Song in my head: "I Get Around" by Dragonette
Hidden band name idea: Mixing God
###
I have to write a novel (the conclusion). I straightened up and wiped my face-smudge off the capsule while I stammered an explanation to the security guard. I blurted out a bit about how the rolled up white paper suspended inside the capsule was my essay. I told him I'd been worried that the time capsule might be opened on its twentieth anniversary. I told him about attending the ceremony back in 1986.
By the time I mentioned the Cats girls I realized I was rambling.
"See, that's my name," I said, pointing out the "Carrington Vanston" etched in the plaque as if that settled the matter. I definitely pointed to it in a "no need to tazer me, no siree" sort of way.
He had walked around the capsule while I was babbling, and he looked at the plaque. I steeled myself to explain in more detail about my novelist-or-failure deadline, about this blog, and perhaps even about how Timothy Findley stole my pen but was dead now. I made a mental note not to make that sound like a causal relationship.
Then I realized he wasn't looking back. He was just standing there staring at the plaque. This went on for some time: me looking at him, him looking at the plaque, me not mentioning Findley.
Finally, he turned back to me and said: "It's 2005."
This is not what I was expecting him to say. It didn't have the words "don't touch" in it. It didn't have the words "escorted from the premises" in it. It didn't even have that ominous "sir" in it. I was confused.
This is a precise transcription of the next exchange between us, word for word as far as I can recall:
Me: "I'msorrywhat?" (said as one word)
Him: "Pardon?"
Me: "I mean…pardon?"
Him: "What?"
Me: "What what? I mean, which what? What did I say, or what did you say?"
Him: "It's 2005."
Me: "Oh. Okay."
aside:
At this point my mind wandered, as it often does. I was reminded of a favorite gag from high school. I used to rush up to people in malls and ask them what time it was. When they'd look at their watch I'd say "No, the year? What YEAR is it?!?" When they'd tell me the year I'd say something like "So it worked! It WORKED!" and then I'd run away laughing triumphantly. I used to love doing that.
end of aside
Him: "It's 2005, not 2006."
Oh, right. So it was.
The rest of the exchange with the security guard was standard "please don't touch the capsule" stuff, then he left me to it. Strange. I would've kept my eye on someone like me.
I'd like to say I had mixed up the year because I'd gotten so caught up in the "twentieth anniversary" idea. But the reality is I often get the year wrong anyway. My cheques still have "19__" on them, which I cross out on the rare times I need to use one and write in some vaguely early 21st Century-ish year. I'm usually not off by more than one or two.
I'd also like to mention that of the scores of you who have written in during this extended blog story only one of you pointed out the errant year. (Here's a shout-out to sharp-eyed Postmodern Sass, one of my favorite bloggers and a fellow Torontonian.)
So it was 2005 (and for all I know it still is). It had only been 19 years since my essay had been sequestered. The twentieth anniversary wasn't for a full year and two days.
I had tons of time!
In fact, I had even more time than you might think because I'd already read the true uncorking date on the plaque. I'd read it as soon as I got there, of course, but I thought it would be more fun to string you along a bit on the blog. I'm a meanie.
Below the disappointing 1986 date on the plaque was the all-important second date, the date of my deadline:
"TO BE OPENED DECEMBER 3, 2011."
I had six years and two days to go! Six long wonderful amazing incredible and most important of all probably sufficient years.
It was the perfect result. Much less and I'd likely have no chance to get a novel written and published in time. Much more and I'd probably slip back into the lazy "oh there's lots of time" mentality that got me into this mess in the first place.
The giant pink tower didn't seem nearly so intimidating when I left, but that's probably because it was cold out.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have a novel to write.
2005 Dec 14 // Link // E-mail
Song in my head: "Big Mouth" by The Muffs
Hidden band name idea: Timothy Findley Stole My Pen
###
I have to write a novel (part four). Looking at the plaque, I could tell at a glance it held dates for both corking and uncorking the time capsule.
"Not 1986. Please not 1986," I thought. It was probable that the time capsule was to remain sealed for a "time capsuley" number of years, such as 20, 25, or 100. So if it had been sealed in 1986 then there was a good chance it was due to be opened in 2006—and there wasn't much 2006 left.
"Not 1986. Please not 1986," I repeated, for dramatic effect, foreshadowing the inevitable. You're way ahead of me on this, aren't you?
I read the first date on the plaque: "SEALED DECEMBER 3, 1986"
Well, pooh.
The capsule's twentieth anniversary would be Saturday, December 3, 2006. I was reading the plaque on Thursday, December 1, 2006.
December 3 minus December 1 equals two days. Gulp.
This could be a dilemma, logistically speaking.
It's odd to think I could be distracted at this point, but I was: a blood soaked hand appeared to be floating inside the capsule. You have to admit, that's a pretty good distracter.
An odd choice of things to preserve, I thought. Could I really have been so intent on Timothy Findley's pennapping (or the Cats gals) back in 1986 that I'd missed the part of the ceremony where they'd cut some dude's hand off?
I leaned against the capsule for a better look and realized it wasn't a hand, it was a glove: the red golf glove of U.S. Women's Open champion Marlene Stewart Streit, now crusty and hard.
aside:
The glove, that is. Ms. Streit may very well remain crustless and pliable for all I know.
end of aside
Other items on display were: Jesse Barfield's bat; Borje Salming's hockey stick; December 3, 1986, issues of four newspapers; a platinum record by Sharon, Lois and Bram; a photo of the place where Lester B. Pearson was born in 1897; a box of Trivial Pursuit (huh?); student essays by Julia Basin, Aubrey Kassirer, and yours truly; and 1985 Annual Reports by the North American Life Assurance Company and Xerox Canada Inc.
What kind of boring-ass companies pick their own annual reports as contributions to a time capsule? Welcome to Yawnsville, population you.
And then my eyes were drawn down below the bloody(-seeming) (non-)hand where on a little shelf sat Not Wanted On The Voyage.
"Gimme back my pen, Findley."
My words came out sounding like "Gimeh buh muh PEH, FIMMY!" because my face was pressed against the capsule to peer inside it. The capsule was up on a railing/riser, so I had to lean far forward with my legs splayed wide. My hands were planted on either side of the capsule as I hugged it to hold myself upright. The right side of my face was mashed up against the clear plexiglass, my nose smushed to the side.
It's important for you to have a clear idea what I looked like at that moment, because that's how I appeared when I glanced up and saw the security guard looking at me from the other side of the capsule.
"Can I help you, sir?" he asked. It may have been the fact that the capsule muffled his words, but to me it sounded a little like "Can I distract you, Mr. Crazy Time Capsule Kissing Man, while my partner levels his tazer at your back?"
I think it was the way he said "sir."
Next time: the plaque distracts, and the date is finally revealed.
2005 Dec 08 // Link // E-mail
Song in my head: "Feels Like Summer" by Sing Sing
Hidden band name idea: Below The Blood
###
I have to write a novel (part three). Yesterday, I trekked up to the Xerox building, camera in hand and lump in throat. Heading up Yonge Street it was easy to spot the salmon tinted tower among the uniformity of apartment buildings and cookie-cutter houses that make up the North York skyline.
As I stood there taking the photo, a man walking past looked back and forth between me and the building a few times. At the next block he stopped, looked back at me, and then took his own photo of the tower. The cheek!
I quickly walked past him a few feet and took another shot of the tower a bit closer than he had. I gave him a look that clearly indicated "I'm the obsessed blogger 'round these parts and don't you forget it."
He walked on, and at the corner he quickly lifted his camera and snapped a sudden second photo of the tower. Then he looked at me as if to say "don't be so quick to judge, Mr. Smarty Blogger, because maybe I've got two essays in there." And then he actually ran away.
Well, I guess it was more of a jog than a run. Okay, a rapid mosey. But still, he rapidly moseyed up the street and around the corner before I could take another photo.
Weird. And I guess he won, dammit.
I crossed the street and entered the looming pink tower. Can a tower loom? If it contains a date that might doom you to an inevitable and very public failure, then you betcha it can loom. And loom it bloody well did.
aside:
Yeah, yeah: giant pink tower equals phallic symbol. We all get it. I was feeling unconfident, worried about creative underachievement, and entering a place that's held sway over me since puberty. So don't blame me if I'm a little heavy handed with the symbols of creation, power, and emasculation. It's not like I'm a professional novelist or anything. Thanks for reminding me. Bastards.
end of aside
My first thought as I stepped out of the revolving door was "oh no, the time capsule is gone!" Yes, I thought it with an exclamation point. The lobby looked nothing at all like I'd remembered it, and more importantly there was no big plexiglass shell anywhere to be seen.
I'd been worried about this. For some reason I'd been secretly hopeful that the uncorking date was in 2017. I'd had that year in mind, though I couldn't recall why. Perhaps I'd had a vague idea the capsule was meant to be sealed for 30 years and it had been closed in 1987? Frankly, I don't know what I'd been thinking. But I do know what I thought at that moment, and it rhymes with "oh tuck."
aside:
It was "oh fuck," in case you are as good with rhymes as I am with penis metaphors.
end of aside
What if the time capsule was supposed to be sealed for twenty years? And what if it had been sealed in 1986? Or 1985? That would mean it would have been opened earlier this year, or even (gulp) last year.
The ceremony was over. It happened without me. I'd already missed my deadline. The reason the capsule was on my mind was that subconsciously I'd recalled that this year was the unsealing year.
It was this year.
The capsule was gone.
I was a failure.
Or maybe the capsule was around the corner behind the elevators? Oh, right. There it was. Fwew!
I hadn't missed the deadline after all. Now all I had to worry about was when that date actually was, and would there be enough time for me to become a published novelist beforehand? Confidently, I looked at the plaque.
And my heart sank…
Next time: a highly disappointing date, a blood soaked hand, and a confrontation with security.
2005 Dec 02 // Link // E-mail
Song in my head: "I Feel Fantastic" by Jonathan Coulton
Hidden band name idea: Up The North
###
I have to write a novel (part two). Dinner was served as part of the time capsule closing ceremony. At my table was author Timothy Findley and the cast of Cats. There may have been other people, too, but I was still shaking off the effects of puberty (often literally) so I mostly just stared at the Cats ladies.
At some point Timothy Findley brought out a stack of his latest novel, Not Wanted On The Voyage, to sign for anyone who wanted one. I'd already read one of his books and found it not to my liking, so like the snot-nosed brat I was I declined a copy of the book.
aside:
Yes, I realize that's just the sort of action that would come back to bite me in the ass Karma-wise if this was a fictional tale of a would-be novelist. Luckily, this is not fiction so there's no such thing as Karma here. Nor the Easter Bunny and God, in case you were keeping track.
end of aside
Findley didn't have a pen on him so he asked if anyone had one he could borrow for the signings. I leant him mine, feeling smugly prepared. Please reread the "snot-nosed brat" comment above.
Eventually we adjourned to the lobby to see the sealed capsule and hear some speeches. Or perhaps that was before dinner. I can't recall because this was a billion years ago, roughly.
I do remember something quite clearly, however. Something that struck me as I was leaving, and that I've recalled and recounted ever since. And that something is this:
Timothy Findley stole my pen.
aside:
That's not Karma, that's coincidence. Some other people might call it petty theft, but those would be people less fearful than me of being sued by an author's estate so I'm going to stick with, um, "premeditated coincidence."
end of aside
So here I am, many years older and no novel richer, ready to head up to the Xerox Tower lobby and look at the date on the capsule's plaque to see just how early/late/screwed I am.
I'll bring my camera.
2005 Nov 28 // Link // E-mail
Song in my head: "Goodnight America" by Tony Carey
Hidden band name idea: Bunny And God
###
I have to write a novel (part one). I have a deadline. A big deadline. An all capitals BIG DEADLINE that looms. That LOOMS. It blocks the sun. It has gravity. It probably has storm troopers. And most of all, it ticks.
I have to write a novel. Not only do I have to write a novel, but I have to write it in time. In time for what, you ask? (Or would ask if this was a conversation. But it's not, it's a blog. So stop interrupting.)
At the end of high school, I had an English assignment to write an essay about the future, or about my future, or something like that. Maybe it was about your future. Whatever. I wrote about me.
I wrote an essay on why I wanted to be a writer. There's no use quibbling or pretending I meant something vague that might include blogger or screenwriter; by "writer" I meant "author," and by "author" I meant "novelist."
My essay was one of three winners for a contest I didn't know that I'd entered. My teacher submitted the essay for me, and I only found out about it when I learned that I was one of the winners. The winning essays were placed in a time capsule in the Xerox Tower building here in Toronto (in what was North York back then).
My essay still sits encased in a clear plexiglass shell in the lobby, along with silver medalist Shawn O'Sullivan's boxing gloves, a program signed by the cast of Cats, a book by Timothy Findley, and a letter from mayor Mel Lastman to the future mayor of North York (it begins, "Dear Myself…")
That time capsule has become one of the defining things in my life. That public declaration of my biggest creative goal gave me a fixed deadline to measure my success or failure. For years I've known that I'd one day attend the capsule opening ceremony to claim success or admit failure both in public and, far more importantly, to myself.
I'd be a novelist by that day, or I'd be a failure. Period.
And yet, I have not written a novel. The days and years have flitted by and I cannot honestly say I've made more than the merest progress.
Oh, I've written some things: stage plays, screenplays, poems, blogs entries, podcasts, essays, columns, comics, stories, technical manuals, jokes, eulogies, love letters, legal documents, and lots of other lies. But not a novel. Never a novel.
And last week I realized that the time capsule might be due to be opened as early as next year.
Tick tick tick.
(Next: Part Two, which is also not a novel.)
2005 Nov 22 // Link // E-mail
Song in my head: "It Never Rains" by Dire Straits
Hidden band name idea: Last Man To The Future
###
Where the hell am I? That, in a nutshell, is the question on everybody's mind. Well, the mind of everybody who wrote me to ask where the hell I am.
And it's a good question. Let's look at the facts:
FACT: I posted just one blog entries in September, and two in October. While that rate of growth could lead to 78 posts next August, it probably won't.
FACT: I haven't podcasted in two months.
FACT: I haven't responded to the letters I've received asking The Question That's On Everybody's Mind Who Asks The Question, or TQTOEMWATQ as it was called in an October 19 New York Post article entitled "Distraught Internet's Plea: Come Back Carrington"
FACT: I lied about the New York Post article. It was actually October 20.
FACT: That's a lie, too.
FACT: TQTOEMWATQ is what grammarians call a "perfect spelling." That's the spelling of a thing as pronounced with a mouth full of that thing. So, TQTOEMWATQ is the word "tomato" as said with a mouth full of tomato.
FACT: TWATTHWANUFALI is the perfect spelling of "that's another lie," which is generally the sound a politician makes when he sneezes. Or speaks.
And that's the facts, Jack. What conclusion can we draw from them? Let's put on our science hats, fire up our bunsen burners, and try not to blow up the science lab. Again. Sprinkle the magnesium into the open flame, do the square root of an impressively large number, cut the red wire…no, the green wire…no, the red—
CONCLUSION: Carrington is a lazy bastard.
Our conclusion seems to fit the facts and our lab coats are not on fire, so I'd say that was a successful experiment. Four out of five dentists agree. At least four. Maybe four and a half. Okay, four dentists plus one very tiny dentist out of five would agree.
aside:
Not with that statement in particular, necessarily, but just in general. They're very agreeable, those dentists. It must be all the clown paintings. Or the gas.
end of aside
But the underlying question that's on everybody's mind is WHY has Carrington become such a lazy bastard, and perhaps more importantly what can we do about it?
E-mail clearly isn't working, although that may be because so many of you send HTML formatted e-mail and I scoff at your selfish newbie hotmailiness. Plus, there was that little "that's it, EVERYONE is going in my killfile!" incident. Overreaction is only fun when it's immeasurably disproportionate, I always say.
Unsubscribing from the podcast isn't working, because I don't give a pair of fetid dingo's kidneys about the size of my audience. Frankly, I don't like most of you and I wouldn't go to your parties if you invited me. Which you don't. But even if you did, I wouldn't go. Probably. Why don't you invite me to your parties? What did I ever do to you?
I promised myself I wouldn't cry.
Actually, I promised myself I wouldn't climb up into a bell tower with a rifle and start thinning out the neighborhood, but it amounts to the same thing. Broken promises, broken hearts. Sucking chest wounds. It'll all end in tears, I know it.
Getting my telephone number from various domain name whois listings and calling me at home to awkwardly ask why I don't produce podcasts or webcomics any more doesn't work, as two of you now know. (Hi Ron. Hi Jessica.) That ends in tears, too. Well: tears, restraining orders, denial-of-service attacks…it's all the same to me. I lump it all under audience relations, and file it under F for "file this properly later."
My F file is the biggest of them all. In fact, it's the only with with anything in it, which makes it much easier to locate stuff because I know anything I might be looking for is filed under F. I could run the government.
I should run the government.
I should run the government into the ground.
See how these thoughts get away from me? See why you shouldn't call me at home at 11 pm your time which is 2 am my time (Hi Jessica) and ask me why I don't make Movie Punks any more? You're only going to ruin it for everyone else.
So what can we do, collectively, to Stop Carrington's Laziness? My guess is: nothing. I suspect we are powerless against the might of my writer's block, my boredom of repetition, my despair over unfinished projects, my terrible dress sense.
Perhaps there are some things about me that just cannot be known. The Carrington Uncertainty Principle. It might apply to my motivations. And my responses to encouragement. And why I buy the ties I do, when I know they can't possibly match any outfit I own. But it does not apply to the perfect spelling of my name, which is CWRRNGHTNGH. (Hi Ron.) But it does seem to apply to most everything else.
So my motives are unfathomable, my actions unpredictable? Is this a lost cause? 'Cause, if so, this was a pretty damn useless blog entry, don't you think?
Although, perhaps…just perhaps…a fresh start? A do-over? A sort of witness protection program for creative wankers like me who find themselves drowning in to-do lists and to-write lists and to-podcast lists and to-film lists and to-build lists and to-program lists and to-list lists.
You know, that's just crazy enough it might work.
Call me Eddie. I'm new around here. Write a poem? Me? No, not my sort of thing. A novel? Not bloody likely. Webcomics and podcasts? Never heard of them. Make a movie? Sounds hard. Blogging? What's blogging? Oh, that sort of looks like fun…
And the circle of internet life is complete.
Stay tuned for a new podcast that not one of you will find interesting. Plus a redesign of this site to shunt the blog off to the side and refocus on a new series of Eat My Words articles more opinionated than ever. Plus maybe, just maybe mind you, I might answer some of my e-mail.
Baby steps.
2005 Nov 07 // Link // E-mail
Song in my head: "Absolutely Barking Stars" by Maria McKee
Hidden band name idea: Killfile Incident
###
A fly flew into Denver at the same time I did. I spotted him flitting from headrest to headrest in the plane just after the movie started, as if he was trying to find the best vantage point to watch Herbie: Fully Loaded with compound eyes.
The truth, of course, is that there isn't one.
That bluebottle made me wonder about something. From his perspective the world might have seemed suddenly boring and sterile. Where were the breezes? Where was the delicious rotting food and the thrill of avoiding spiders? And where oh where had all the pooh gone?
Seen from the dull curve of a headrest, the flight was just a period of unexplainable tedium followed by being suddenly released into the open air and again surrounded by familiar delights and dangers.
From a larger perspective, he was living one of the most interesting and incredible fly lives ever. He'd flown higher and faster than any fly has ever dreamt of. He'd traveled an unimaginably far distance to a strange, mile-high metropolis a good chunk of the way around a planet whose size and place in the universe—and perhaps even existence—no fly had even begun to fathom.
And it all happened, unnoticed, during what he probably saw as the boring bit between the two interesting halves of his life.
The thing that fly made me wonder about was whether he was the only one on the plane that had happened to, because I suspect it's not just flies that live lives of unnoticed adventure.
Then again, maybe he thought he was lifting the whole damn plane and us monkeys were lucky to have him along.
And maybe we were.
2005 Oct 04 // Link // E-mail
Song in my head: "Black Tongue" by Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Hidden band name idea: Us Monkeys
###
I'm not a book keeper (nor a bookkeeper). I'm more of a read 'em and leave 'em sort of guy. I have about a dozen books on a "to be read repeatedly forever" shelf, but everything else gets left behind.
I used to give books to libraries, but they don't want them any more. I used to sell books to used book shops, but the tuppence I'd get didn't make it worth lugging them down to the store.
I should join bookcrossing.com. I don't know why I haven't. I like the idea, and I've left scores of books in "please find me and read me" places all over North America.
aside:
I'd like to officially coin the term "litterature" for discarded books, if it's not already in use as a description for the new age section of a book shop. Remember: "littérature" is a French word that means books written in a made-up nonsense language, while "litterature" is now an English term coined by Carrington Vanston because he is witty and interesting and should be invited to parties. Someone get the Webster people on the line…
end of aside
Last week I took Max Barry's book Jennifer Government to Denver, where I left it sitting comfortably on a bench in Park Meadows Mall.
I wonder if it'll write?
2005 Oct 04 // Link // E-mail
Song in my head: "Gone" by Kanye West
Hidden band name idea: The Webster People
###
Sometimes you turn a corner on the internet and instead of the usual web surprise (oh look, more porn) you find yourself faced with something truly beautiful and unexpected.
The latest lovely-round-the-corner surprise for me was Sean McHugh's "Cambridge in Colour" collection of photographs from in and around the University of Cambridge in the United Kingdom. Definitely a must-see site.
Be sure to step through the "full screen slideshow" as that's the best way to take in the images: one jaw-dropper after another.
