Insomnia, "artists"
I was up until about 6:30. This is not something that ever really happens to me; there is a reason that falling dead asleep on couches relatively early in the evening is known to some as "pulling a Phoebe" (although the phrase more refers to times during which I fall asleep on a glass of wine, which remains stable until I shift at some point and it then explodes on, say, Carol and Melissa, who are still sitting up cackling after a night of duck confit, way too much wine and kava bars) (worst hangover ever).
Right. So, I didn't want to take any of my myriad prescription or OTC drugs to facilitate sleep, because essentially every third time I cough it leads to, well, severe vomiting or dry heaving, depending. (This is one of the many things I've just sort of become accustomed to over the past few weeks.) So I lay in bed for a while, reading Mysteries of Pittsburgh, and then I turned out the light and stared at the ceiling and determined lying there wasn't going to accomplish much.
I decided to watch television, but frankly my two most compelling options were Gremlins or Jack Frost 2 (which I would have happily watched had I been with my brothers). I longed for the days when Andrea and I would fall asleep in bed watching The Goonies, but that is neither here nor there.
So I was going to watch the Vanity Fair screener, mainly because I assumed it would put me to sleep, when I stumbled across Searching for Debra Winger, a DVD I've had for probably almost a year that for some reason I hadn't gotten rid of yet.
I wish I would have the opportunity to review this movie, but sadly I never will. First of all, it's billed as "A Rosanna Arquette Experience" (as opposed to "film" or even, God help us, "joint"). My feelings for Rosanna Arquette have suffered a bit as a result of this. Basically, it's this gauzy, simultaneously fascinating and awful documentary about a bunch of rich (or once rich) actresses and how can they have it all or can't and blah blah blah.
It featured a lot of actresses I really like, such as Gwyneth Paltrow and Diane Lane, and succeeded in making it difficult not to hate them. The main problem is that I cannot help but loathe anyone who begins a sentence with "As an artist ..." I mean, shut the fuck up, Salma Hayek. You have a spectacular rack, but I wouldn't really describe it as "artistic." No one wants to hear you speak.
Robin Wright Penn, though she appeared to be suffering from herpes, was somewhat less off-putting -- maybe just because she's so lovely, especially with her hair in two messy braids. And then, of course, with Rosanna's urging she began bragging about her magical marriage to Sean Penn, and I'm forced to remember watching him pick up two girls young enough to be his daughters in a Toronto bar in September.
Vanessa Redgrave and Charlotte Rampling were a lot better, and smarter, though I'd venture to guess that pretty much any working actress who does not reside in the greater Los Angeles region would have to be.
Oh, but the best part was definitely the actreses talking massive shit about plastic surgery, and then the not-too-subtle cuts to heavily altered participants including Melanie Griffith and Meg "Trout Lips" Ryan. (Melanie Griffith, not that this is news, may or may not actually be retarded.)
In other news ... The weather is still lovely. My back is still killing me. Last night (or more accurately this morning and this afternoon) both dogs and both cats slept in my bed. Alex picks up Kingsley Zissou, nee Margot Tenenbaum, on Thursday, I believe, as he and Andy move into their new apartment tomorrow. But I lurve her.
So now, in yet another effort to get back to normal life, I'm going to make a pot of tea and perhaps some toast (I haven't consumed anything resembling breakfast in quite a while) and be as productive as my impending death allows.
Right. So, I didn't want to take any of my myriad prescription or OTC drugs to facilitate sleep, because essentially every third time I cough it leads to, well, severe vomiting or dry heaving, depending. (This is one of the many things I've just sort of become accustomed to over the past few weeks.) So I lay in bed for a while, reading Mysteries of Pittsburgh, and then I turned out the light and stared at the ceiling and determined lying there wasn't going to accomplish much.
I decided to watch television, but frankly my two most compelling options were Gremlins or Jack Frost 2 (which I would have happily watched had I been with my brothers). I longed for the days when Andrea and I would fall asleep in bed watching The Goonies, but that is neither here nor there.
So I was going to watch the Vanity Fair screener, mainly because I assumed it would put me to sleep, when I stumbled across Searching for Debra Winger, a DVD I've had for probably almost a year that for some reason I hadn't gotten rid of yet.
I wish I would have the opportunity to review this movie, but sadly I never will. First of all, it's billed as "A Rosanna Arquette Experience" (as opposed to "film" or even, God help us, "joint"). My feelings for Rosanna Arquette have suffered a bit as a result of this. Basically, it's this gauzy, simultaneously fascinating and awful documentary about a bunch of rich (or once rich) actresses and how can they have it all or can't and blah blah blah.
It featured a lot of actresses I really like, such as Gwyneth Paltrow and Diane Lane, and succeeded in making it difficult not to hate them. The main problem is that I cannot help but loathe anyone who begins a sentence with "As an artist ..." I mean, shut the fuck up, Salma Hayek. You have a spectacular rack, but I wouldn't really describe it as "artistic." No one wants to hear you speak.
Robin Wright Penn, though she appeared to be suffering from herpes, was somewhat less off-putting -- maybe just because she's so lovely, especially with her hair in two messy braids. And then, of course, with Rosanna's urging she began bragging about her magical marriage to Sean Penn, and I'm forced to remember watching him pick up two girls young enough to be his daughters in a Toronto bar in September.
Vanessa Redgrave and Charlotte Rampling were a lot better, and smarter, though I'd venture to guess that pretty much any working actress who does not reside in the greater Los Angeles region would have to be.
Oh, but the best part was definitely the actreses talking massive shit about plastic surgery, and then the not-too-subtle cuts to heavily altered participants including Melanie Griffith and Meg "Trout Lips" Ryan. (Melanie Griffith, not that this is news, may or may not actually be retarded.)
In other news ... The weather is still lovely. My back is still killing me. Last night (or more accurately this morning and this afternoon) both dogs and both cats slept in my bed. Alex picks up Kingsley Zissou, nee Margot Tenenbaum, on Thursday, I believe, as he and Andy move into their new apartment tomorrow. But I lurve her.
So now, in yet another effort to get back to normal life, I'm going to make a pot of tea and perhaps some toast (I haven't consumed anything resembling breakfast in quite a while) and be as productive as my impending death allows.