Fancy a film?

I have a terrible, horrible fault. It's awful, and I hesitate to admit it. And yet. I am somehow compelled by the blogisphere to reveal this dirty, dark secret.

I watch bad movies. Really. Bad. Movies. I'm not sure what it is. It's not that I enjoy them, necessarily, or that I seek them out. But if there is an old movie about a terminally ill woman trying to gain the right to kill herself or a divorced mother estranged from her successful daughter, anything with Sally Field or an autistic salesman, especially made-for-TV-only, provided there is nothing else worthy of my attention on television, I will watch it. All of it. If I change the channel within the first 15 minutes, I'm alright. After that, I am stuck like deer in headlights. I can't look away.

Although there were symptoms, I wasn't aware of the predilection until moving to this country. They play a LOT of bad movies here beginning on Friday afternoons and continuing through Sunday evening. Anything from 1952 to 1997 is fair game, although I've discovered the best (worst?) films are those produced in the late 80's to early 90's.

I was hoping I could cure myself through written catharsis, but this afternoon, Fluke, Pillowtalk, and Cats & Dogs are on. A man who reincarnates as a dog, crossed phone lines bringing together a decorator and songwriter, and kittens trying to take over the world. I am definitely turning off the telly. Best not to even get started.