I don't have A/C, but I do have skylights that are open to cool the house. So I hear a lot of ambient noise from the street, neighbors, local pets, etc.
Tonight I thought I heard the unmistakable strum of an electric guitar. Just a few quick chords. For some reason, I walked out my front door to track the sound and ended up in front of the building, at a neighbor's open door.
Bringing me into the acquaintance of Russell and Faye. I've seen Faye before, and she has always greeted me warmly, the type of person who is casual with their use of endearments.
Next thing I knew I was in their living room, as Faye prepared a little tin foil package of some leftover items she had from an event she catered that night. Her business card says "The Cake Fairy," and somebody gets to have lemon drizzle cake for breakfast tomorrow. (hint: it's me)
Her husband Russell perched on a stool, holding a gorgeous slim silhouette hollow body that looked like a Rickenbacker but wasn't. He teaches guitar and writes for film and television. I mention my sister was just in town, and she's learning to play. Faye decides that I sing. I agree that I do, no matter who objects.
I ended up giving Faye a hug, because she's just that kind of person. At the first offer of the leftover treats I declined and said maybe tomorrow. She said, "Say 'yes' today." How can one argue against that kind of philosophy?
She called me Angel and bid me goodnight. The whole thing happened so fast. I petted their teensy little Chihuahua.
There are so many coincidences, synchronicities here. . . if you are looking for meaning and connections, you will find them, create them. It's all about perception. But still, sometimes they get thrown in your face so hard, it's difficult not to laugh and wonder if the world isn't having a go at you.
They say people here are mean, rude, and self involved. But my time here to date has consistently shown that to be a gross and incorrect generalization.
It is *different* though. I sometimes feel that I'm just kind of wandering from one strange movie scene to the next. An Extra for the Universal Play, bouncing between sets. It's not a bad feeling. And sometimes I even score food. :)
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
Giallo: A Review
It pains me to say this, but the truth will out.
The movie Giallo sucks. Just plain, flat out bad film making in nearly every aspect.
From "Italian horror master" writer/director Dario Argento, this movie plays out more like a bad made for television yarn than anything worthy of a cinema showing.
I'm familiar with Argento by reputation, as a gore-fiend horror director who apparently pushed boundaries with his over the top bloodfests of the 70's. But I've never actually seen one his films, such as the famous Suspira. Based on Giallo, however, I'd say he's still working with same 1970's cameras, filmstock, and laughable special effects.
Following the anemic, by the numbers tale of a cop trailing a serial murderer, we are treated to a host of plot turns that range from cliche (our cop is a loner with PTSD-worthy skeletons in his closet) to the ridiculous (in Italy it's apparently par for the course to show a potential victim's sister all the grisly photos of what the perp does, like slashing throats and cutting off lips---yay!).
Adding insult to injury, this movie doesn't even bother to treat the viewer to any sort of procedural sense. We are the Law & Order generation, weaned on Silence of the Lambs and the X-Files. Don't you dare flash an FBI logo jacket (from New York FBI???) and then fail to use basic terms like, oh, I don't know, sociopath, UNSUB, signature, M.O. or anything else even remotely police-like. For the love of Agent Starling, our detective doesn't even use the word serial killer to describe our killer. He's a pattern killer. What? That's not what it said on the DVD label. Seems the marketing guys had some info they didn't let you in on, ABrods.
The lighting is off and inconsistent. There might have been an attempt at thematic use of color, very blatant, but it was undercut by the constant changes in film quality.
The framing of the film even seemed amateurish, with shots and angles that looked like one-offs or like the second unit director let his film school nephew run around for a day.
The ADR is probably the only truly terrifying thing about the whole film. And I don't think having Adrien Brody do loops for various characters that he wasn't playing was a wise choice. If you've already got the dude ~SPOILER ALERT~ doing two characters in the film, don't have him voice over a third. WE WILL KIND OF NOTICE.
On the whole ~SPOILER ALERT~ front, how amazingly unclever to have ABrods play both the detective and the the prosethically challenged killer. Wait, what's that? The credits list a "Byron Deidra" in the villain's role? I could have sworn that was Brody, underneath about six ounces of Max Factor pancake makeup and an bad Bruce Springsteen wig.
Wait a minute. "Byron Deidra." "Adrien Brody." I C WUT YOU DID THAR, D'ARGENTO. And fuck you.
And to top off the bad dialogue, glacial pacing, and Seriously Questionable Wardrobe Choices (which could be a whole entry on its own), we have a director who seems obsessed with the notion the Ultimate In Gore and Horror is achieved via the use of gratuitous amounts of ReCockulously Fake Ass Blood. This shit was so fake looking, I kept expecting penne and rotini to spout out of the victim's wounds.
It was really creepy, because there was the hint of sexual aspect to the maiming, with lots of stabbing, and tons of spurting. Apparently one of the victims carotid artery was located in the finger she had lopped off. Bitch bled buckets, shot blood across the room, blood *rained* down on her. All from a snipped finger.
It's called corn syrup and red dye, Argento. Try it out sometime. Beats latex tomato sauce any day of the week.
But really, all you actually need to know about this movie is that it is this monstrosity manages to obfuscate one of the Great Universal Principles--it makes Adrien Brody look like he can't act. This is patently false, and by physics as I understand it, this movie should actually implode on itself and cease to be. ABrods can act. We've all seen it. I, more than many, perhaps. Imma go testify behind it and tell it on the mountain.
This movie manages to negate that Universal Invariant. What next? Land wars in Asia?
If you would like to see the lovely ABrods in a thrill-kill movie, do yourself a favor and watch Oxygen instead.
Post Script---I still heart you Adrien. Call meeeeeeeeee!
The movie Giallo sucks. Just plain, flat out bad film making in nearly every aspect.
From "Italian horror master" writer/director Dario Argento, this movie plays out more like a bad made for television yarn than anything worthy of a cinema showing.
I'm familiar with Argento by reputation, as a gore-fiend horror director who apparently pushed boundaries with his over the top bloodfests of the 70's. But I've never actually seen one his films, such as the famous Suspira. Based on Giallo, however, I'd say he's still working with same 1970's cameras, filmstock, and laughable special effects.
Following the anemic, by the numbers tale of a cop trailing a serial murderer, we are treated to a host of plot turns that range from cliche (our cop is a loner with PTSD-worthy skeletons in his closet) to the ridiculous (in Italy it's apparently par for the course to show a potential victim's sister all the grisly photos of what the perp does, like slashing throats and cutting off lips---yay!).
Adding insult to injury, this movie doesn't even bother to treat the viewer to any sort of procedural sense. We are the Law & Order generation, weaned on Silence of the Lambs and the X-Files. Don't you dare flash an FBI logo jacket (from New York FBI???) and then fail to use basic terms like, oh, I don't know, sociopath, UNSUB, signature, M.O. or anything else even remotely police-like. For the love of Agent Starling, our detective doesn't even use the word serial killer to describe our killer. He's a pattern killer. What? That's not what it said on the DVD label. Seems the marketing guys had some info they didn't let you in on, ABrods.
The lighting is off and inconsistent. There might have been an attempt at thematic use of color, very blatant, but it was undercut by the constant changes in film quality.
The framing of the film even seemed amateurish, with shots and angles that looked like one-offs or like the second unit director let his film school nephew run around for a day.
The ADR is probably the only truly terrifying thing about the whole film. And I don't think having Adrien Brody do loops for various characters that he wasn't playing was a wise choice. If you've already got the dude ~SPOILER ALERT~ doing two characters in the film, don't have him voice over a third. WE WILL KIND OF NOTICE.
On the whole ~SPOILER ALERT~ front, how amazingly unclever to have ABrods play both the detective and the the prosethically challenged killer. Wait, what's that? The credits list a "Byron Deidra" in the villain's role? I could have sworn that was Brody, underneath about six ounces of Max Factor pancake makeup and an bad Bruce Springsteen wig.
Wait a minute. "Byron Deidra." "Adrien Brody." I C WUT YOU DID THAR, D'ARGENTO. And fuck you.
And to top off the bad dialogue, glacial pacing, and Seriously Questionable Wardrobe Choices (which could be a whole entry on its own), we have a director who seems obsessed with the notion the Ultimate In Gore and Horror is achieved via the use of gratuitous amounts of ReCockulously Fake Ass Blood. This shit was so fake looking, I kept expecting penne and rotini to spout out of the victim's wounds.
It was really creepy, because there was the hint of sexual aspect to the maiming, with lots of stabbing, and tons of spurting. Apparently one of the victims carotid artery was located in the finger she had lopped off. Bitch bled buckets, shot blood across the room, blood *rained* down on her. All from a snipped finger.
It's called corn syrup and red dye, Argento. Try it out sometime. Beats latex tomato sauce any day of the week.
But really, all you actually need to know about this movie is that it is this monstrosity manages to obfuscate one of the Great Universal Principles--it makes Adrien Brody look like he can't act. This is patently false, and by physics as I understand it, this movie should actually implode on itself and cease to be. ABrods can act. We've all seen it. I, more than many, perhaps. Imma go testify behind it and tell it on the mountain.
This movie manages to negate that Universal Invariant. What next? Land wars in Asia?
If you would like to see the lovely ABrods in a thrill-kill movie, do yourself a favor and watch Oxygen instead.
Post Script---I still heart you Adrien. Call meeeeeeeeee!
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Well, That Happened.
So, today is my old man's birthday. I screwed up and didn't get stuff created/in the mail on time. But I did call today. It's all good because he's on a high from getting to watch the last shuttle launch the other day. In person and stuff. Pretty cool.
Yesterday was way weird. Princess O sneak attacked me Friday night, and brought with her the Gift of Hooch. And there was much rejoicing. Until yesterday morning. At which there was a fair amount of groaning.
I managed to pull myself outta bed/offa the couch and run a few errands. Don't get excited, I didn't actually get anything accomplished like paying bills, purchasing supplies, or buying furniture. I just managed to spend an indecent amount of money on worthless personal grooming. I'm a champ.
Then I get home and I'm all hungry and tired. I click on the telly to catch a movie and what to my wondering eyes should appear? It's the Hitler (nee History) Channel, showing a marathon of plague-death-apocalypse shows! Some of you know those shows are better than Xanax and sleeping pills for me--they are a balm for my worn out nerves.
True to form, I sacked out on Mt. Beanaminjaro and fell asleep at 5:00 pm in the afternoon. Got up a few times and then passed out on the bed later.
That is a simply unheard of amount of sleep for me.
Well, today I awoke and felt all spacey in the head zone. Made several calls to folks back east (all of whom miraculously answered) and stepped out to check my mail from the day before.
Whence I found my sometimes neighbor Stu standing with my across the way neighbor Gary, and his dog Jack. Stu says, "You know anything about diabetes?"
Gary is older, but about 12 years younger than my dad turned today. He doesn't look younger. Jack is a black labrador, and you know badly they age. So I grab some candy off my counter and step into Gary's apartment.
We get him to eat half a bite size Hershey's and drink some Coke. Gary's not looking real good, and tells us he thinks we might need to call 911. Stu has a diabetic friend, so he's thinking we can get Gary's blood sugar back up. We watch, pained, as Gary performs his own blood sugar test.
Monitor reads 33. I'm no expert, but I think this is a bad sign. I ask Gary what he needs it to be and he says at least 70.
He guzzles more Coke, and we check his blood two more times. The last time its 27. I look at Stu and he says, "Do you wanna make the call?" I check with Gary, who makes no objections, and then I'm dialing 911 for the first, and hopefully last, time in my life.
I chat on the phone with some folks, and it appears that the fact that Gary is conscious with regular respiration is a Real Good Sign and they arrive in short order. I help gather up his ID and medic info bracelet, and I stay with him while they poke the poor guy full of holes trying to tap a vein.
They push a shitload of sugar water---I mean, that must have *hurt*--and within two minutes ol' Gary is doing a hell of a lot better. I ask the guys if he needs more sugar and they say he needs some protein and carbs, like a sandwich. While they are finishing up, I duck into his kitchen and make a quick cheese sammich outta his fridge (cuz you know there ain't no kinda food up in my place).
Gary doesn't want to go to the hospital. I'm figuring this is b/c Gary has no insurance, a little fact I wheedled out of him before the EMTs showed up. He sits on the stoop and tells me this is the second time in a week this has happened. We agree that he should go to the clinic on Monday. Maybe his insulin doses are too high.
I let Jack out of the back bedroom (had to stash him there at the para's request) and go on my way. Gary thanks me a bunch of times, and Stu has long since dipped out.
It's weird, being in other people's apartments, their personal spaces. Especially in this part of town--we are all living in tiny little rooms, we are all pretty poor, and we sleep on floors and have no a/c and stuff.
It's strange rummaging through someone's bedside stash, looking for their cellphone, or finding their paper towels to wipe the blood off their fingertips, or cobbling together a sandwich from the stuff in their cooler. (I'm just assuming a person likes mustard and mayo on a sandwich if they own those two condiments.)
But the smell, that's the worst. Gary and Jack both smell like death. Like something gone slightly off, just beginning to turn. Something you would like to believe is a collection of forgotten, damp rags or food left out, but it's not.
Man, I hate that smell. I didn't even get anything on me, and I still had to change my shirt when I came back inside. Like smoke or cat piss, it's one of those smells that gets inside your head and you think you sense it everywhere. Or maybe it is everywhere, and you just don't notice most of the time.
Today on the Hitler Channel they are showing specials about Thermopylae and dinosaurs. It's almost like they are trying to win me back after six months of crap programming.
Last night I had the strangest dream about my siblings, random deaths, Christmas, and buying guns.
I have such a long list of things to get done. But I have the oddest sensation, like I'm bobbing along in the ocean, just adrift. Displaced.
Yesterday was way weird. Princess O sneak attacked me Friday night, and brought with her the Gift of Hooch. And there was much rejoicing. Until yesterday morning. At which there was a fair amount of groaning.
I managed to pull myself outta bed/offa the couch and run a few errands. Don't get excited, I didn't actually get anything accomplished like paying bills, purchasing supplies, or buying furniture. I just managed to spend an indecent amount of money on worthless personal grooming. I'm a champ.
Then I get home and I'm all hungry and tired. I click on the telly to catch a movie and what to my wondering eyes should appear? It's the Hitler (nee History) Channel, showing a marathon of plague-death-apocalypse shows! Some of you know those shows are better than Xanax and sleeping pills for me--they are a balm for my worn out nerves.
True to form, I sacked out on Mt. Beanaminjaro and fell asleep at 5:00 pm in the afternoon. Got up a few times and then passed out on the bed later.
That is a simply unheard of amount of sleep for me.
Well, today I awoke and felt all spacey in the head zone. Made several calls to folks back east (all of whom miraculously answered) and stepped out to check my mail from the day before.
Whence I found my sometimes neighbor Stu standing with my across the way neighbor Gary, and his dog Jack. Stu says, "You know anything about diabetes?"
Gary is older, but about 12 years younger than my dad turned today. He doesn't look younger. Jack is a black labrador, and you know badly they age. So I grab some candy off my counter and step into Gary's apartment.
We get him to eat half a bite size Hershey's and drink some Coke. Gary's not looking real good, and tells us he thinks we might need to call 911. Stu has a diabetic friend, so he's thinking we can get Gary's blood sugar back up. We watch, pained, as Gary performs his own blood sugar test.
Monitor reads 33. I'm no expert, but I think this is a bad sign. I ask Gary what he needs it to be and he says at least 70.
He guzzles more Coke, and we check his blood two more times. The last time its 27. I look at Stu and he says, "Do you wanna make the call?" I check with Gary, who makes no objections, and then I'm dialing 911 for the first, and hopefully last, time in my life.
I chat on the phone with some folks, and it appears that the fact that Gary is conscious with regular respiration is a Real Good Sign and they arrive in short order. I help gather up his ID and medic info bracelet, and I stay with him while they poke the poor guy full of holes trying to tap a vein.
They push a shitload of sugar water---I mean, that must have *hurt*--and within two minutes ol' Gary is doing a hell of a lot better. I ask the guys if he needs more sugar and they say he needs some protein and carbs, like a sandwich. While they are finishing up, I duck into his kitchen and make a quick cheese sammich outta his fridge (cuz you know there ain't no kinda food up in my place).
Gary doesn't want to go to the hospital. I'm figuring this is b/c Gary has no insurance, a little fact I wheedled out of him before the EMTs showed up. He sits on the stoop and tells me this is the second time in a week this has happened. We agree that he should go to the clinic on Monday. Maybe his insulin doses are too high.
I let Jack out of the back bedroom (had to stash him there at the para's request) and go on my way. Gary thanks me a bunch of times, and Stu has long since dipped out.
It's weird, being in other people's apartments, their personal spaces. Especially in this part of town--we are all living in tiny little rooms, we are all pretty poor, and we sleep on floors and have no a/c and stuff.
It's strange rummaging through someone's bedside stash, looking for their cellphone, or finding their paper towels to wipe the blood off their fingertips, or cobbling together a sandwich from the stuff in their cooler. (I'm just assuming a person likes mustard and mayo on a sandwich if they own those two condiments.)
But the smell, that's the worst. Gary and Jack both smell like death. Like something gone slightly off, just beginning to turn. Something you would like to believe is a collection of forgotten, damp rags or food left out, but it's not.
Man, I hate that smell. I didn't even get anything on me, and I still had to change my shirt when I came back inside. Like smoke or cat piss, it's one of those smells that gets inside your head and you think you sense it everywhere. Or maybe it is everywhere, and you just don't notice most of the time.
Today on the Hitler Channel they are showing specials about Thermopylae and dinosaurs. It's almost like they are trying to win me back after six months of crap programming.
Last night I had the strangest dream about my siblings, random deaths, Christmas, and buying guns.
I have such a long list of things to get done. But I have the oddest sensation, like I'm bobbing along in the ocean, just adrift. Displaced.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
88 Minutes, or 88 Hairpieces?
Finally watched 88 Minutes. I'll give some proper feedback later. But I just wanted to take this moment and say:
*sigh* I heart you forever, Beautiful Al.
The world hangs from this man's cheekbones. There are moments in Godfather, Dog Day Afternoon, and Serpico where he is so breathtakingly beautiful that it's like sculpture come to life.
*sigh* I heart you forever, Beautiful Al.
The world hangs from this man's cheekbones. There are moments in Godfather, Dog Day Afternoon, and Serpico where he is so breathtakingly beautiful that it's like sculpture come to life.
Intermittent Updates and Other Foibles
Gentle readers, you may have noticed that BlatherBlahg has been a little remiss in the update department as of late.
While there are many actual and worthy reasons, such as visiting friends and relatives, a strange work schedule, and a hectic get-it-done-before-you're-shitcanned series of events, I'm afraid the writer is mostly at fault.
Because my brainium does not work efficiently or correctly.
This morning I sat down to the simple task of making a play list and burning it to CD for my old man's birthday. Foolishly, oh so foolishly, I thought to have this all done and be shipping then shopping by early afternoon.
For inexplicable reasons (really, I can't explain or figure why this ^%*!@# thing won't burn or read cds) here I sit, an entire day later. With nothing to show for my day at home except a now LONGER list of things to get done tomorrow.
I also realized a few months ago that I had been doing the unthinkable: watching movies and not reporting back! Gasp! Vapors! Vapors! I mean to make amends for that soon.
The time that my sort-of-guests were in town was a strange little universe unto itself. While on paper it doesn't look like we did much, all that not-much took all of my time. The day they left I napped almost the entire day. That's right. Napped. Unheard of! Ghastly! Smelling salts! Smelling salts!
Now I emerge from that isolated dimension and realize I might need an a/c unit for this house, that I have a crap ton of paperwork due by next Friday, I am about to lose my oft maligned but surely loved MacBook, and that my official lay off begins next week and I don't have anything lined up.
I still don't know what my health insurance options, other than COBRA, are. I understand some things have changed, but I'll be damned if I know what. (I'll be damned for multitudinous this well before that particular damnation crops up, for those keeping score at home).
It's unlike me to be so disorganized and unprepared. But maybe that's the old me, and this is the new SoCal me. I defintely gave up the ghost and went out More Than Once in Lebowski regalia in public. No bathrobe, but hideous boxers and a ratty tee. I am rapidly approaching Defcon 1 in the Don't Give A Rat's Ass category. Though I may be approaching 100% acheivement in the Looking Like A Rat's Ass category. I'm not sure. I haven't known many rats, and certainly none of them enough to be familiar with their hinders.
Let me sign off with a few pix from recent shenanigans:
That last one is for Dirty Bertie.
While there are many actual and worthy reasons, such as visiting friends and relatives, a strange work schedule, and a hectic get-it-done-before-you're-shitcanned series of events, I'm afraid the writer is mostly at fault.
Because my brainium does not work efficiently or correctly.
This morning I sat down to the simple task of making a play list and burning it to CD for my old man's birthday. Foolishly, oh so foolishly, I thought to have this all done and be shipping then shopping by early afternoon.
For inexplicable reasons (really, I can't explain or figure why this ^%*!@# thing won't burn or read cds) here I sit, an entire day later. With nothing to show for my day at home except a now LONGER list of things to get done tomorrow.
I also realized a few months ago that I had been doing the unthinkable: watching movies and not reporting back! Gasp! Vapors! Vapors! I mean to make amends for that soon.
The time that my sort-of-guests were in town was a strange little universe unto itself. While on paper it doesn't look like we did much, all that not-much took all of my time. The day they left I napped almost the entire day. That's right. Napped. Unheard of! Ghastly! Smelling salts! Smelling salts!
Now I emerge from that isolated dimension and realize I might need an a/c unit for this house, that I have a crap ton of paperwork due by next Friday, I am about to lose my oft maligned but surely loved MacBook, and that my official lay off begins next week and I don't have anything lined up.
I still don't know what my health insurance options, other than COBRA, are. I understand some things have changed, but I'll be damned if I know what. (I'll be damned for multitudinous this well before that particular damnation crops up, for those keeping score at home).
It's unlike me to be so disorganized and unprepared. But maybe that's the old me, and this is the new SoCal me. I defintely gave up the ghost and went out More Than Once in Lebowski regalia in public. No bathrobe, but hideous boxers and a ratty tee. I am rapidly approaching Defcon 1 in the Don't Give A Rat's Ass category. Though I may be approaching 100% acheivement in the Looking Like A Rat's Ass category. I'm not sure. I haven't known many rats, and certainly none of them enough to be familiar with their hinders.
Let me sign off with a few pix from recent shenanigans:
 |
| In Soviet Russia, Russian Blue sits on Your ass. |
 |
| Though it intially seemed plausible, survelliance of the La Brea Tar Pits revealed they were not a convenient site for a body dump. Damn fences. |
 |
| My friends and associates: Wallering and staggering their way across the world, true ambassadors for their respective homelands. |
 |
| Taking in a little sun, waiting in line for the Hollywood Cematary to open up. |
 |
| I once signed a piece of pavement the size of a tangerine. And I didn't blink. |
Sunday, July 3, 2011
There Is No Freaking Food In My House
There's nobody to blame but me. And you know that's a shame.
Going to be around 2:00 and waking up at 5:30 is load of crap, too. But that's my life. Oh well.
Surfing the tube and what should I happen upon but Dances With Wolves. Dammit. I'm all caught up in watching it, and you know that bad boy lasts for about 11 hours or something. It also brings to mind something else that is quite disturbing: I think I have become a Kevin Costner apologist.
What? Don't judge me! The man's made some good films. And so what if his acting skews more towards Pinnochio than Brando sometimes? I appreciate the natural athleticism and physical skill he brings to his roles. He's an excellent horseman, and that's no mean feat. It's more than you can say for a lot of folks out there today. Besides, he keeps showing up in my dreams and being nice to me.
Sorry, but dreamtime niceness goes a long way with me.
I paused for a minute, that turned into hours, and now I don't know what I was saying. A sure sign to stop.
Going to be around 2:00 and waking up at 5:30 is load of crap, too. But that's my life. Oh well.
Surfing the tube and what should I happen upon but Dances With Wolves. Dammit. I'm all caught up in watching it, and you know that bad boy lasts for about 11 hours or something. It also brings to mind something else that is quite disturbing: I think I have become a Kevin Costner apologist.
What? Don't judge me! The man's made some good films. And so what if his acting skews more towards Pinnochio than Brando sometimes? I appreciate the natural athleticism and physical skill he brings to his roles. He's an excellent horseman, and that's no mean feat. It's more than you can say for a lot of folks out there today. Besides, he keeps showing up in my dreams and being nice to me.
Sorry, but dreamtime niceness goes a long way with me.
I paused for a minute, that turned into hours, and now I don't know what I was saying. A sure sign to stop.
Out and About
With the little sis in town and the subsequent arrival of her manservant/boy toy, life has kept me kinda busy. It seems like she just got here, and already it's just about time for her to go.
My friend J moved to New York City (cue salsa inspired repetition) about elventy bajillion years ago. It was the first scattering to the winds of our band of friends. The first time I visited her there we went to an old movie and caught a showing of Breakfast at Tiffany's.
Tonight, at the Hollywood Cemetery, I watched Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, for the first time. Awesome film. And it seems to me to be to very appropriate film bookends for my life.
My friend J moved to New York City (cue salsa inspired repetition) about elventy bajillion years ago. It was the first scattering to the winds of our band of friends. The first time I visited her there we went to an old movie and caught a showing of Breakfast at Tiffany's.
Tonight, at the Hollywood Cemetery, I watched Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, for the first time. Awesome film. And it seems to me to be to very appropriate film bookends for my life.
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