shaken & stirred

welcome to my martini glass


Good evening, I say, in my best Bela-Lugosi-only-not voice. It's finally Friday! The goddamn week is finally goddamn over! Yeehaw! (It's a good thing the year's almost over, because that's pretty much my full quota of exclamation points for the year right there.)

What have I been doing with myself all week? Tiptoeing across ice in boots that should have stayed in the closet another day till thaw began, dreaming feverishly, and planning for how to give smallpox vaccinations to some people here without freaking everybody out. Whoopee. You can see why I needed the exclamation points.

I think George the Dog stays on the couch pretty much all the time when we're not here. It used to be I'd catch him, once and awhile, on the smaller couch. (Our couches are these big leather behemoths inherited from my grandmother. They're low and not as comfortable as they could be, but they're very vintage '40s, possibly '50s... Richard's having a heart attack somewhere at my inability to diagnose the period, I'm sure, but if he ever comes to visit us he can pinpoint it within a heartbeat. I hope if you're reading this, it means you have power again and luxurious heat and that kind of thing.) That aside was for Richard only--snoopers!

(I'm practically insane after this week. Isn't it more fun to watch?)

Have I mentioned Christopher's still working, till ten tonight? Eek.

Oh wait, I was telling a George the Dog story. Here goes: Wait. It's not so much a story as an observation. George, more and more frequently, is on the larger couch we usually lay claim to in the evening hours, and um, he doesn't even bother to jump off guiltily when I come in anymore. He just kind of raises his head and quirks his little non-eyebrows as if to ask, "Are you going to feed me? Because if you're going to feed me, I might get up." Also, the couch blanket now smells like dog. Dogs are such bad double-agents. That Disney Cats and Dogs movie from a couple of years ago may have been a wonder of special effects featuring flying cats, but true to life it was not. Everybody but everybody knows that cats are better secret agents than dogs. You know how I know? Because there are people right now thinking, Oh, dogs are so smart, Oh dogs in studies have done this and this and this and cats haven't and you know what? That's just what the cats want you to think. Make a catfood can that can be opened without thumbs and they take over the world. Don't doubt it.

So, I came home and tore open Netflix envelopes and because watching movies is one of the ways I actually ease out of work mode and into writing work / weekend mode, I picked the one Christopher was least likely to actually make it through to watch tonight. (Seeing as how he's still at work.) There are a few things to recommend 13 Conversations About One Thing. Clea DuVall (the goth girl from The Faculty) is luminous and wonderful and sad and inhabits such a lovely awkward space with the frame of her body it's amazing to watch. John Turturro's in it, which is never bad, but is actually better (at least for me) when he's working with the Coens. There are some really nice lines, some really interesting editing, the music is very nice... Speaking of which, I have a particular fondness for the ensemble movie where the characters' lives touch each other so very briefly and then move on. This is one of those. No one ever equals Robert Altman doing it, but sometimes people wave at him, watching them and shaking his head as they try. Anyway, the real problem with this movie is that the one thing is happiness and there's very little of it in the movie. Making a movie without happiness, without joy, is so easy. It happens all the time. And making a movie about happiness without happiness or joy, well, it seems a bit too clever to me, a bit too easy as well. I'd rather there have been more joy. I'd rather one of the subplots didn't remind me of David Mamet. But, eh, a tentative recommend. It has some lovely shots and the good things I mentioned above. But don't expect Altman at his best. Or even Paul Thomas Pretentious-Head.

Oh, Oh, Oh, I have to go now and find my favorite squirrel link for Kristin. Back soon.

That is all. Keep your feet warm.


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