Why'd Ya Go And Do That?

Did you know that Mandy Patinkin and Madonna recorded a Sondheim duet together? These things do happen.

(EW*): Always, No, Sometimes Think It's Me, But You Know When It's A Dream

I think a no, I mean a yes, but it's all wrong
That is I think I disagree

This song popped in my head and this train of thought left the station before it could be derailed by the later day's events.

Strawberry Fields. As a child I disliked the circular lyrics, the inexplicably monotonous sing-song of the chorus, the wildly vacillating lyrical tempo--I didn't sound right and easy and kind like some of their other songs.

As I grew, my love for the Beatles in their 907 Glorious Forms grew as well. Strawberry Fields seemed like another not-so-secret drug ode. (In my arrogant youth I also dismissed Chicago's 25 or 6 to 4 as pandering. Oh, the assured omnipotence of youth!) I heard there was a plaque somewhere, Times Square? Whatever.

But the lyrics had wormed their way into my personal soundtrack. I owned not only solo John Lennon albums, I owned Julian Lennon albums.  (PS, Julian, it's none of my business, but I can't help but feel that your dad was kind of a tool. I'm glad it didn't stop you from going into music. There's a darkness in the air that seems to guide me.)

And from Papa Lennon, I was grooving to tasty treats like,
 
No one I think is in my tree, I mean it must be high or low
That is you can't you know tune in but it's all right

But it wasn't until today that chanced to look up Strawberry Fields lyrics and stumble across an annotated version. 

I didn't know it was about Lennon's child hood. I didn't know it was about the ineffable sadness of knowing how profoundly different you are from the other kids. I didn't know that the title shared its name with a park Lennon frequented as a youth. I didn't know John Lennon was scared to sing it, as he considered it one of his most personal songs.

To quote Lennon himself:

I was different all my life. The second verse goes, ‘No one I think is in my tree.’ Well, I was too shy and self-doubting. Nobody seems to be as hip as me is what I was saying. Therefore, I must be crazy or a genius — ‘I mean it must be high or low,’ the next line. There was something wrong with me, I thought, because I seemed to see things other people didn’t see

I fully recognized that quote could be interpreted in a grandiose, arrogant way. It certainly seems to lean that way, no? But that's not how I took it. I took it as that terrible and constant feeling that you can't talk about the things you think with your peers--you scare them. You can't use logic or science in this debate, it makes your friends cry. You are different and you know it and if you're lucky some well meaning adult doesn't take a special interest in you because we all know how well that's gonna go, outcome irrelevant. 

Well, shut my mouth wide open: I just made a profoundly emotional connection to John Lennon--somebody I would never consider to have anything in common with me. I'd like to believe I'm like a lot of clever, witty, talented people, but it never occurred to me to be able to relate to Lennon.

So I told you all that just in case it has any bearing on what followed, which followed so very quickly I had no choice but to consider it a Result.

********************************************

It gets harder than it should be. Even though it's probably you making it hard in the first place, you just can't get away from it.

In my objective assessments, I feel like a sponge. In my self pitying moments, I consider myself a sin-eater.

It's just People: there's so many of them and they are all bleeding emotion in every direction and their thoughts are so loud and their sadness and anger is even louder. So many people, so many stories.

And you can't respond to all that. They'd cart you away in the next available straight jacket. Sometimes I wonder if insanity is just the absence of the ability to control all the input. Besides being institutionalized for trying to communicate with Everything All At Once, you also wouldn't then be able to accomplish anything your needed to do. Ever again.

So you fake it. You chant litanies in your head that become magical wards against interloping thoughts. You fall into a meditation and don't let it touch you. You put on armor and remind yourself to keep breathing.

Unfortunately, and perhaps what drives me here today, is the realization that you can put on your armor and shield yourself from Humanity, but you're still going to Witness it. You're Marked. All the defense systems in the world can't save you, there will be a chink here and there and all the back-burnered pain of Humanity will come surging in. 

Maybe it will dissipate in the wisps of uncomfortable dreams you don't remember, but that leave you feeling unrested. Could take the form of one too many beers and subsequent hangover pain that mutes the thoughts, but also serves the urge for penitent self-flagellation. You find a way to distract yourself, you choose a different poison.

But it's killing you all the same. The pills to stop the pain are just as harmful as the pain itself. Slow poisons, bad risks, self loathing, rage--whichever or all, you're going down.

*EW = Experimental Writing

When I Awoke At 4:30 a.m. I Thought. . .

. . . that I should get out of bed and just get all my chores done.

So, when I finally got out of bed between 7 and 8, I thought: Okay, I can get all of my chores done this morning.

After some morning staggering around and cruising the net (always a bad idea, always) and reasoned by 11:00 at the latest, I could get it all done. Then I looked at my clock.

10:12 am.

Whoops.

Well, I'm here to report that at 11:22 am the majority of my chores were done. Aided greatly by doing piecemeal chores in the two days leading up and my Hall & Oates Pandora station.

The H&O station was a little off, thematically, but it played several awesome songs in a row, which makes it all okay. For now.

I closed out with "Eye of the Tiger" and we just hit H&O gold: "She's Gone." This is possibly the greatest video ever. Penguin hand guitar. Devils. Bad lip syncing.

Get it? He'd pay the devil to replace her. Get it? I'm pretty convinced if I ever shot a video it would look like this.

Among the awesome songs shuffled through was "Miss You" by the Rolling Stones. Familiar with it? If you are like me, that song has been a part of your life so long that you don't even know the lyrics. Like, you sing along with Jagger's mushmouth ultra-twang, but you probably haven't stopped to consider what the song is about, how unique it sounds, etc. Sometimes you don't even realize you are singing along. Let's call it the R.E.M phenomenon (LEONARD BERNSTEIN!).

Here's the video if you need a refresher. If you aren't familiar with this song, I don't know if you would find this funny.

I will forever associate this song with my two friends, J-Dog and tink. It helps remind me that normal is totally relative.

J and I are in the front seat, J's driving, and tink is chilling in the back. We are all in town for holidays or something. "Miss You" comes on the radio and, rather unconsciously I think, J and I start singing the parts we know. Please note, this is first time I've ever looked up these lyrics.

Mumble hum
Mumble hum blah
(Lord/Mumble/Gibberish) I miss you 
Something something phone
Mumble something
Something hum
mumble something something you


Oooh oooh oooh oooh
Oooh oooh oooh oooh
Oooh oooh oooh

I think that might have been the part that led tink to lean forward to catch the song. If you think about it, synchronized Ooooohs are prolly pretty weird sounding with no context.

Mumble mumble
lots of humming
Making shit up
Blah blah something, humming for a while

When the phone rings

It's just a friend of mine that say
"Hey, what's the matter, man?
We're gonna come around at twelve
With some Puerto Rican girls that are just DYING' to MEET YOU
We're gonna bring a case of wine
Hey, let's go mess and fool around
You know, like we USED to"

Now, bless her, tink managed to make it through that outburst without saying anything. Oblivious in the front seat, J and I continue our scattered hum along, until we reach the next good part.

I've been walking in Central Park
Singing after dark
(creepy whisper) People think I'm crazy
Stumbling on my feet
Shuffling through the street
Asking people, "What's the matter WICHOO, boy?"
Sometimes I want to say to, to myself
Sometimes I say

Imagine two people just bust that out. You can't really hear the song, aren't familiar with it, and your friends seem to singing some ode to Puerto Ricans and repetitive nonsense sound. I think, fairly, tink had enough and demanded, "What the HELL is this song?"

I don't think J and I fully appreciated how confusing the whole thing was. If I recall correctly, we finished out the song. With profound shit, like

Oooh oooh oooh oooh
Oooh oooh oooh oooh
Oooh oooh oooh

Aaah aaah aaah aaah
Aaah aaah aaah aaah
Aaah aaah aaah

Lord, I miss you child

It was a small moment. You probably had to be there. It makes me smile.

ETA: Just watched the beginning of that Stones video. Holy crap, y'all. I think I know where Ted Levine got his inspiration for the Buffalo Bill dance scene. My mind. It is blown.

Live Blogging My Spontaneous "A-Team" Marathon

Gad bless Netflix streaming.

• Oh, look. It's Pilot!Face who didn't get picked up for the season. Poor guy. He's like the Pete Best of the A-Team.
• BTW, if you like the A-Team, don't do any real research into the actors and their time together. Or maybe even things they've said since then. Just, really, live the dream, man.

 

 

• Oh, is there a horrific Asian stereotype in every production involving George Peppard?
• Wow. Ol' George really did have movie star eyes. That blue is just. . . wowza.

Banacek, bitches!

• Based off my knowledge of late 70s to early 80s serial television, I'm going to venture that G.Pepp was a cigar fan. On the company dime.
• Damn, Mr. T is helluva tough. But he's always got time for the kids!
• Awww, Murdock. How much fun is a role like this? Mr. T was the coolest, Face was the prettiest, Hannibal was the jazziest, but my fave was always Murdock.
• You know, when I saw The A Team (2010) movie, I thought that Bradley Cooper was just going way overboard on the Face casting. Bradley Cooper's body, in that film, is stupefying. Thank god they limited his shirtless screen time, because I Do Not Even Have Thinking Brain Explodey How Is That Even Possible With Eating and Muscle Mass Oh Lord I Need To Lie Down. Really.

This is ridiculous.

•  In addition to this fact is that Bradley Cooper is a disturbingly pretty man. He is far prettier than I have ever managed to be. It's a little unnerving and unnatural.

We are not even going to talk about his Hair Fu. But it is considerable.

•  All of which is an incredibly long winded way of saying that I Thought He Had A Real Pretty Mouth and it was a bit much. But then I start my A-Team walk down memory lane. And you guys know what? Dirk Benedict was ridiculously good looking. I can't even find pictures to do him justice. It's just silly. So, mea culpa 2010 crew--you were spot on the money.

Newsflash: World Full Of Beautiful Men, Trend Continues

• "On the jazz"---totally had forgotten that.
• Those mofos just escaped jail with lawn chairs, trash bags, dozen or so hair dryers, and two long ass extension cords. Seems legit.

TBD....Gotta roll.

He's Still Beautiful, I Still Love Him

This man has had a profound effect upon my life. I ever meet him, I hope I have the presence of mind to kiss him soundly in thanks.

My subconscious is playing tricks on me again, this song appearing in my head before I could even reason why.

Drink up, dreamers, you're running dry

Post True Detective Finale: Open Letter To Nic Pizzolatto and the Cast & Crew

Dear Nic P,

You clever thing. You told me how it was going to end. I knew how it was going to end. Somehow you wrung surprise out of a foregone conclusion. Few things are more delicious in story listening than realizing your expectancy of the narrative has been both right and wrong at the same time.

Thanks for the wild ride. Thanks for not sucker punching us. Thanks for only breaking our hearts as much as was necessary. And thanks for the unexpected hope.

Cast & Crew,

You kick ass. Directing, set design, wardrobe, lighting, sound, that little acting part--what a first class production.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

This series has been a phenomenal experience. I now have to blather to assuage my feels.

The thematic balance has been incredible. They spend the shows telling you exactly how to watch the shows and what's coming next. Time is a flat circle. We've been here before and we will be here again.

Rust Cohle didn't just stare into the abyss, he saw what the Monsters see when they stare.

Woody Harrelson being tearfully "all right" was amazing. I thought we had lost him to Carcosa for a minute there.

What was it about Rust's experience in the void that comforted him? Was it the memory of love, that he carried that feeling with him? Was he ready to die, but the love of his daughter made him want to live? Was it knowing that the last thing he felt was love, and this made all the bad shit a lot more understandable? Was it knowing that his daughter must have felt the same love when she died?

Me: Ah! They're flipping each other the bird again. That's true love, right there.

My Brother: Uh, I think you might have a weird definition of true love.

Loved all the Jesus-ish touches with Rust from the showdown to the hospital. It wasn't too pointed, just lovely suggestions, visual wisps.

McMatt managed to get a shirt partially off. I have no objections to this.

I was reminded tonight that my visual perceptions and conclusions about life and my experiences ARE NOT everybody else's. And that mine might seem really weird to some people. I just forget that, sometimes.

It's 1 am. I need to stop thinking about all this. I need to go to bed.

Today was a good day.

Prior To The True Detective Finale

This has been an awesome ride. I feel good enough to venture two predictions:

1. Nothing that happens in this episode can diminish my admiration and appreciation of this show.

2. Rev. Rust, in the Library, with The LoneStar Beercan-Man
-- but really

• Carcosa is the promise of life after death, or defying death. It's an idea, not the formal name of a physical location or object. LMM may refer to his den as Carcosa, but I think it's a much bigger idea than that.
• Yellow King is not a person. An idea. A religious idea.
• Audrey Hart saw, at least, a video tape of one of the cult's pedophilic rituals.
• Audrey Hart was exposed to this media via her maternal Grandfather. He had something on hand that she saw. Don't feel like's he's a cult member, but I don't have much else to theorize about it. Unless he's a lawyer.
• There will be no final justice. There will be no great public scandal. Rust and Marty will set in motion the wheels that expose more people, but those involved are too powerful and nobody wants the bad PR. So some people might have some real early retirements and maybe some "other" minor convictions. But the evil at the root of these crimes will not be wholly eradicated.
• Rust will die. Marty will die.
• Rust will live. Marty will live. 
• Both. Time is a flat circle.
• And Maggie is not part of the goddamn cult, ffs. 

See you guys on the other side of Carcosa.

The McConnaisance Is Killing Me

And I haven't even seen Dallas Buyers Club yet.

Though it might very well be that my real problem is True Detective.

ETA: I know these pics are oversized. Bear with me as I try to figure the right specs to hard code them. The "Large" option just isn't big enough to do these babies justice.

Got dayum. Got dayum. Got dayum.

There is a lot of Texas in this picture.

A moment of intimate domestic violence, both expressed and implied.

Okay, so the McConnaisance is somewhat a factor.

The South. It's all growth amidst decay.

This on of the intro credit images that strikes me every time.

This one hurts my heart sometimes. I don't know why.

Smartasses of the world, unite.

Fukunaga and his goddamn opulent sparseness.

Many of the most consistent iconographies seem to be Baroque. This could be Catholic, Santeria, or Rock N Roll.

This is just an amazing image.

My Oh My, You Sure Know How To Arrange Things

You set it up so well, so carefully

Auld Lang Syne
--Bobby Burns

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne?

CHORUS:

For auld lang syne, my jo,
for auld lang syne,
we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp!
and surely I’ll be mine!
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We twa hae run about the braes,
and pu’d the gowans fine ;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,
sin auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We twa hae paidl’d i' the burn,
frae morning sun till dine ;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
sin auld lang syne.

CHORUS

And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere !
and gie's a hand o’ thine !
And we’ll tak a right gude-willy waught,
for auld lang syne.

    For auld lang syne, my jo,
    for auld lang syne,
    we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
    for auld lang syne

And as I turned to make my way back home
The snow turned into rain

Oh Shit, We Got Old

I could go on a nostalgic, bittersweet rant right now--this brings up so many memories.

I wonder if the person I was would find anything familiar in the person I am now.

I wanted to believe that the truth is out there, but everything dies. Except Scully. She never dies. ;)

X Files--20 Year Anniversary

New Year's Confessions

I hate New Year's Eve and Day. They are my second least favorite celebrations. The occasion affects my Humours most severely, and I find I'm often struck by terrible Melancholy.

Tonight wasn't so bad. But as I often am, I was lost in the morass of my own thoughts. Tied up in dread of future tasks.

And yet.

Family came out to dinner and some to the party afterwards. My friends continue to be amazing hosts. I finally got relief from some persistent pain. I'm relatively sane and perfectly sober at this ungodly time of night.

I don't really know what to say. I've quite run out of words these days. Or the belief that anyone wants to listen. Or whatever.

Here's some other stuff that happened.

11:30 PM Call

I had just drifted off to sleep, a singular occurrence, when my phone rang. I checked the number and dialed back to get my little bro.

I'm really glad I did. Turns out it wasn't a death notification. He just wanted to share his demented and perverse glee over his trivia team's merciless ass whooping of their opponents. We ended up talking for almost 2.5 hours.

He's one of the funniest people I know. Though not everybody gets his references, which is a shame because they are always awesome. For example, his trivia team is named "Deep Hurting."

Classic.

I wish I had been a better sister to him all those years ago. I'm immensely grateful that he doesn't hold it against me, and that we can have a relationship now. I wish, as I do with much of my family, that I could do morenfornhim, help him out in life.

Goodnight everybody.

Creeping Nostalgia and The Sunburn Diaries

Flash Updates: downloads from the brain, to allow me to move on. The brain, it is so teensy, I must dump things from it to maintain it's semi-functionality.

******************************************************
Sunburn Journal, Day Four

The scathing pain has stopped and I can wear clothing again. Though I'm still exothermic, my back and shoulders are beginning to numb. I'm glad, even though I know it's really bad news--it's the beginning of the inevitable decomposition and shedding of that part of my body. Is there a medical term for a reverse hunchback?

On the plus side, my face burn has subsided, and I now just look like a salty sailor.

*****************************************************
Life events have conspired, and Eddie Vedder is all around me these days. Oh PUH JAM, how I still love thee!

And listening to PJ in the town I had the best two years of high school, well, what a recipe for nostalgia. Tink correctly and hilariously tagged Pearl Jam as Sad Bastard music. It's also Mad Bastard music. And I think it's disturbing that I still relate to it so profoundly at this point in time. Should I have grown past this, emotionally and mentally?

But then again, maybe I don't want to. I stopped buying their albums after No Code. My pal Neese says the new LP is worth a listen. . .

*****************************************************

Speaking of reeling in the years, last nights send off of JDog turned into a reunion of sorts. And the wine flowed. A bit too much flowed down me gullet, and bit too much b.s. flowed out me mouth. But the past was all around me, I was ready to laugh away my moody turns, eager to be entertained, and unconcerned about other's motives.  I know some funny, witty folks. And some cute boys.

In a moment of EPIC WIN FOR LIFE my buddy Neese proved again that One Joke Rules Them All. He brought the Universe full circle by saying "Don't feel like a bastard to me," to me in conversation. I kissed him and made him call Bef right then and there. It was freaking beautiful. I can't even come up with a proper analogy right now.

New superpower discovered: ability to make grown men jump and leave table/room/house. Probably not a flattering comment on my personality.

**********************************************
Partial download complete. Back to salt mines.

Epiphany (?): Why It Didn't Work Out

We both want peace.

I cannot feel at peace if I perceive unresolved conflict.

You cannot feel at peace if subjected to conflict.

I seek conflict, to resolve it. You avoid conflict, I imagine for the same reason, in a way. These are not necessary statements of fact, but rather how we appear compared to each other.

And there you have it. Similar goals, but different approaches. And in that difference of approach, enough dissimilarity to ensure a small tragedy of a romance, but the eventual reward of a deeply cherished friendship.

Had we been more different, it could have been a Jack Sprat situation. Wherein we could have occupied each others' vacancies. Polished off each the other's plate, as it were.

Had we been more alike, we would have never had to think at all about how to handle certain situations. Perhaps this small, but fundamental difference introduced an adversarial component to our interaction that spelled its doom.

I thought you were being dishonest. You thought you were being nice.

Or maybe. . . . you really are just a stoopid poo head. Hrmmm....yes. That might be it. Yay!

At this rate I'll only need to be unemployed, in financial crisis, and approaching agoraphobic depression for another. . . 215 years before I have EVERYTHING figured out. What a relief!

Playing the Sentimental Fool, So You Don't Have To

Well, the final round of boxen arrived from back East. Finally. The contents prove that my mother and I were definitely dropping acid or doing meth or something that severely compromised our mental faculties.

Lots of stuff in this last batch that were meant for "deep storage." Yearbooks, assorted birthday card collections, photo albums from high school. Detritus from the inescapable clutches of nostalgia that have gripped me from a much too early age.

Among the sappy debris:

• A half finished photo album. Several pictures of the first boy I ever fell in love with. I looked at these photos and remembered feeling so much for him, but strangely feeling nothing at all for him today. I was so very in love with him, immensely and hopelessly. And to remember that feeling, without experiencing that feeling, or any feeling other than bemusement--so odd.
• Within the same album and a scant few pages later, a picture of another great love. And when I saw his face I smiled and my head immediately filled with Etta James singing "My Funny Valentine." I sang a verse outloud while I leafed through the pages interspersed with snapshots of him and the people that made up my life in those days. So yeah, that's right. I sang a love song to your old photo. Born in the wrong age, I suppose. It was a good feeling, a gentle tug on the heart, a whisper of a great and true affection that once was. 
• Three poems of love, all from girls I've known at different stages in my life. Yes, dear readers, it's true. The boyfriends never wrote me love letters--it was the girls who put pen to paper and told me I was beautiful and worthy of love. Thank you, you gorgeous girls: Elizabeth, Amy, and Hazel.
• My father doesn't write much, but every once in a while a note would get passed to me. One counseled me against grief and advised: "Hope does not equal agreement, only acceptance. Hope is acknowledgement without purchase." Thanks, Dad. I love you, too. 
• I had a roomie, and somehow we got in the habit of leaving messages to each other on yellow legal pads. Those pads got used for other things, including the beginning of my life long attraction analyses, silly poems, drawing with feet, and general goofiness in our apartment in the projects. He's out there in the world, being the good person he always has been. I find comfort in that. 
• Two stray photos that wouldn't seem connected to anyone else--a cat and a girl. Two things I love beyond all reason and rationale. Two loves that don't require logic or analysis. In some ways, I have forever lost both the cat and the girl. In some ways, I will never lose them, at least not how I feel about them. Cloyingly wrought with saptrified nostalgification, but true.
• An old birthday card, wishing that all my dreams would come true. Except for the ones about the circus peanut alligators. From the same person, a graph depicting the fun quotient versus money expenditures for a vacation plan. This person was my best friend for a long time. And then they weren't. But isn't that how it always goes?

I figure I've been pretty lucky in life. I've had some good times with good people, good times with not so good people, and bad times with people who cared standing by. I try to remember this, and be thankful. Like the man said, nothing gold can stay. 

What's The Last Movie That Made You Cry?

This is a question I got asked today. I had a ready answer, already written up and stashed in away. The last movie that made me cry f-ed me up so bad I think I wrote about three different times.

With my move and the few possessions I wanted to retain being scattered to the four winds, I don't have access to all those angst-ridden ponderings. But lucky, lucy you, I got at least one of them.

So, playground rules in effect: I'll show you mine with an understanding of reciprocity.

Disclaimer: Though I say it below, I feel the need to be clear on this point--I don't do weepy movie time. I don't like crying in general, and it's few and far between that I find book, music, film or other media that inspires it.

The film in question was The Jacket. My original thoughts were a lot less linear and much more reactive. This is not a logical review of the movie. It's a visceral response translated into the weak words I could muster to convey what I felt. Here's an excerpt of what I originally wrote:

This movie. This damn movie just hit me in that secret place you live; that private grotto where you stake out your last stand, you and all your fears. 

It wasn't enough to cry during the movie. I ended up crying afterwards as well.

Maybe I'm just tired, and getting soft and sentimental in my dotage.

But I hate crying. I hate it.

There is a horrific beauty in this movie, in more ways than one. Ironically, I was looking for poems on beauty today to send to some friends. And here I come home to a horrorshow marvel, a poetic phantasm. 

But more than that, here is the piercing heartache of terrible purpose. The kind of purpose that destroys as it fulfills. And failure to fulfill is beyond destruction. It's worse than death. 

Failure means you stay here and live forever, knowing in your heart you took the wrong train.

Typing it out makes it easier. We are, after all, reactive creatures and require proof in the pudding. So after making a lifetime out of dodging destiny, it becomes easy to dismiss existential worry--there's no evidence. None except that wriggling, niggling, mildew worm that shuffles just to the right of your line of sight: missed ya, missed ya, missed ya. . .

Tomorrow is almost here, look at all this sensory input. Hard and concrete. Large and discrete. Easy to measure, easy to feel. None of this gobbledegook, if you will.

I read that now, and I can understand that it might mean nothing to others. Truthfully, the Tyrant known as Distance has given me some sense of calm about that film. I even wonder to myself, was it really that bad?

But believe this bub, I will Never Watch That Fucking Thing Again. I can be detached discussing it right now. But that mofo carved out my heart and did the Mexican Hat Dance on it. I was weeping, weeping, halfway through the film.

A movie hasn't filled me with that much anguish since, ironically, The Pianist. Another movie I will Never Again View.

(Sidebar: I hate movies about the Shoah. Hate hate hate hate. I hate them because they are true, and I can't ever separate the action on screen from the reality that This Shit Right Here Actually Happened to These People. I watched The Pianist under protest. The guy who picked it up as our rental did it despite my displeasure. He then had the audacity to look at me halfway through and say, "God, what's your problem? If it's so bad we'll turn it off." Yes, he was a dick. Yes, I hope his falls off.)

So what can I add to the above that might make some kind of sense? Here's what made The Jacket so gut wrenching: tragic inevitability. Every frame just drips with Impending Doom and Horrific Consequences. It's awash in Inescapable Destiny. People searching for tiny patches of sunlight, who would be content with mere seconds in the sun, but instead are pummeled by tsunamis of terrible circumstance.

And I think it's so particularly poignant because the catastrophes are so small, so personal. We've all heard a version of the quote that if you kill one man it's a tragedy, if you kill thousands it's a statistic. Well here is one small, singular tragedy. The lens of the camera magnifies it to an epic exploration of the horror of flawed fate.

I'm sure all of this just oozes something psychologically disturbing and embarrassing about me, but the truth is I've never bothered to revisit the whole thing long enough to do a post mortem. Some movies bum you out. Some harpoon your soul. Thar she blows, mateys.

Unff

That's the sound of a sucker punch to the gutinoids. But not necessarily a bad one.

I'm stewing over a few things, holed up in my Fortress of Solitude, when I get a call from a whole room full of people I used to work with.

It's my old bosses, PDiddy and the Chuckster, running a proposal. Apparently, there have been five in the last month since I left. The irony of that is...well, I don't even know if irony is the right word. That's just life in Proposal Land. They always almost drop, almost drop, almost drop, then BLAMMO--without fail they all drop at the same, worst possible time.

I had just this morning been thinking, rather fondly, about my old boss PDiddy, and told the guys as much on the phone. I had actually been on the verge of writing him an email this morning, but chickened out for some reason or another.

I realize that under his tutelage, I have either been trained to be the most amazing secretary ever, or a completely deranged, compulsive obsessive, detail fixating nutjob. These might not be mutually exclusive concepts.

But there is a secret in all of this. All I really wanted to say in my email was this:

I miss you.

Because I do.

One of the things I didn't anticipate was the vast difference in feel between an office I'd worked at for almost 6 years and a brand new one. Sure, the people I've met have been friendly. And I probably have more in common with a larger percentage of them than I might with the crew I left behind. But still. . .

I guess I just didn't bank on the obvious fact that we end up spending a sizable chunk of our waking lives with our coworkers. I can honestly state that I saw more of my coworkers, even socially, than I did of anybody in my family. And in the last two years, more than any one in my social circle/friends.

And the kind of work they were in the middle of today--it's grueling, hellish, thankless work. But for some of us it engendered a foxhole camaraderie. After we worked a few weekends, or months of weekends together, we became a kind of loose knit team. We got stuff done, when it *had* to be done. And we didn't bitch. Well, not too much. Everybody had their quirks, and you pretty much knew when to give somebody a pass or some free space.

And never, EVER, print anything out on legal sized paper for PDiddy. Unless, like me, you just find some kind of perverse pleasure in seeing him get riled up. Yeah, I'm sick like that. Just ask Bef. She's lived with it for years.

(BTW---how is your SpaderWaiter, Beffrany? Dost thou stalk him at new locations? Is he working at TGIFs now? I know that you know, you sick little thing you. And Billy Zane is still teh gay).

I think I lost the thread here. But in case it didn't come through, that was a cool phone call to get.

It made me smile. In fact, I'm still smiling.