more...intensity
That title should be read in a Japanese accent. I'll get to why in a bit.
I was just telling Eileen last week how incredibly happy I've been feeling lately. I'm not sure why - I haven't been doing anything exciting with people, school is nothing to write home about, I'm not in love - but nonetheless, I am joyful. Things that should really get me aggravated, like the tortoise pace of a crosstown bus at rush hour or a crowded subway car, still do, but in a much more fun way. Sometimes they don't even bother me at all and I just laugh them off. Publicly.
Of course my litttle bit of glee was derailed, this time from a snub by Richard on 10th Avenue. (I though 10th Avenue was supposed to be the friendly avenue!) I shouldn't complain, since I did the same to him on a rainy night in July, although the visceral involuntary stomach churning left much to be desired. Eileen decided to take my mind off things with a movie, though she accurately predicted that I would be horribly preoccupied. I still, however, managed to enjoy the movie.
Lost in Translation is easily one of the best movies I've seen in quite some time. Everything - acting, writing, cinematography - was top notch. Bill Murray never really did it for me before, but he really hit his stride. Sofia Coppola takes a story which could have easily gone May-December disgusting and instead makes it a wonderful friendship between two lost souls. If you've ever been lonely and found comfort in an unlikely companion, you'll get it. The entry's title, by the way, comes from a command given to Bill Murray by a Japanese director as he films a whiskey commercial. "More...intensity"
Death, death, death. What is this world coming to? Now no one will see a werewolf drinking a pina colada at Trader Vic's, fall into a burning ring of fire, and the kisses will just be hers. In each of these three deaths, we've seen a different way to die. You can collapse completely out of the blue at work, die of loneliness and a broken heart after the death of your life partner, or die a year after doctors said you only had three months left - enough time to see the birth of your grandchildren. Which would you prefer?
Alright, can't end this on such a downer. I'm back. The Karen I've been trying to recapture, the daring, the spontaneous, without some of the blatant stupidity and self-destructiveness, has returned. And I have the ghost of Warren Zevon to thank. There was this dude on the M23 this afternoon who was, pardon the expression, a dead ringer for Zevon. Not only did I sit next to him, but I let him know. Naturally, no one had ever told him that, but he seemed pleased. I had correctly sized him up as a Zevon fan. I got off at his stop - two before mine - and we walked down 23rd street together, talking about rock star lookalikes. We parted with an introduction - his name is John - and a warm handshake. It's good to be back.
I was just telling Eileen last week how incredibly happy I've been feeling lately. I'm not sure why - I haven't been doing anything exciting with people, school is nothing to write home about, I'm not in love - but nonetheless, I am joyful. Things that should really get me aggravated, like the tortoise pace of a crosstown bus at rush hour or a crowded subway car, still do, but in a much more fun way. Sometimes they don't even bother me at all and I just laugh them off. Publicly.
Of course my litttle bit of glee was derailed, this time from a snub by Richard on 10th Avenue. (I though 10th Avenue was supposed to be the friendly avenue!) I shouldn't complain, since I did the same to him on a rainy night in July, although the visceral involuntary stomach churning left much to be desired. Eileen decided to take my mind off things with a movie, though she accurately predicted that I would be horribly preoccupied. I still, however, managed to enjoy the movie.
Lost in Translation is easily one of the best movies I've seen in quite some time. Everything - acting, writing, cinematography - was top notch. Bill Murray never really did it for me before, but he really hit his stride. Sofia Coppola takes a story which could have easily gone May-December disgusting and instead makes it a wonderful friendship between two lost souls. If you've ever been lonely and found comfort in an unlikely companion, you'll get it. The entry's title, by the way, comes from a command given to Bill Murray by a Japanese director as he films a whiskey commercial. "More...intensity"
Death, death, death. What is this world coming to? Now no one will see a werewolf drinking a pina colada at Trader Vic's, fall into a burning ring of fire, and the kisses will just be hers. In each of these three deaths, we've seen a different way to die. You can collapse completely out of the blue at work, die of loneliness and a broken heart after the death of your life partner, or die a year after doctors said you only had three months left - enough time to see the birth of your grandchildren. Which would you prefer?
Alright, can't end this on such a downer. I'm back. The Karen I've been trying to recapture, the daring, the spontaneous, without some of the blatant stupidity and self-destructiveness, has returned. And I have the ghost of Warren Zevon to thank. There was this dude on the M23 this afternoon who was, pardon the expression, a dead ringer for Zevon. Not only did I sit next to him, but I let him know. Naturally, no one had ever told him that, but he seemed pleased. I had correctly sized him up as a Zevon fan. I got off at his stop - two before mine - and we walked down 23rd street together, talking about rock star lookalikes. We parted with an introduction - his name is John - and a warm handshake. It's good to be back.