"Last what I heard my baby said. What did she say, boy?"
I've spent a chunk of the last hour on Google Earth, in "street mode," pretending that I was driving about Athens, Georgia on a hot summer day. It almost works. And it's preferable to the windy, scrubbed-raw blue day outside. It's 53˚F, but it feels like 45˚, and it's windy as fuck, from the northwest at 15-25mph, with gusts to 50mph.
I am adding Michael Winner's Death Wish (1974) to my mental list of the worst films ever made that were actually shown in theaters. It amounts to 94 minutes of artless pro-gun, pro-vigilantism. Its villains are grotesque, laughable caricatures, and it's heroes are vile. Death Wish drips with sleaze. Charles Bronson smirks a lot and sorta thinks about acting every now and then, when he's not busy shooting cardboard bad guys who spout such gems as, "We want money, motherfucker, now get it!" and "Cunts! I kill rich cunts!" I don't know how I lived to be fifty without ever seeing this contrived piece of crap, but I wish I'd lived to be seventy-five without having seen it. Vincent Gardenia phones in a half-awake performance as a beleaguered police lieutenant, and that's the best part of the film.
I got no writing done yesterday. I let the weather shut me down. I did manage, with the help of Kathryn, to sort through an enormous box of miscellaneous work-related papers in my office - contracts, sections of manuscripts, galley pages, programs from cons, magazines, fan mail, and - an uncashed check from 2009 for more than $4,200 from Penguin, partial payment for The Red Tree. I shit you not. Kathryn says it was lost and then a replacement was sent, but I have no memory of any of this. 2009 was a pretty bad year, so I'm not terribly surprised that I misplaced almost $5,000. I am assuming there's no hope of cashing the thing now.
“Writing comes from reading, and reading is the finest teacher of how to write.” ~ Annie Proulx
That's all I have at the moment. I need to turn the music up louder to try and drown out the wind.
TTFN,
Aunt Beast
I am adding Michael Winner's Death Wish (1974) to my mental list of the worst films ever made that were actually shown in theaters. It amounts to 94 minutes of artless pro-gun, pro-vigilantism. Its villains are grotesque, laughable caricatures, and it's heroes are vile. Death Wish drips with sleaze. Charles Bronson smirks a lot and sorta thinks about acting every now and then, when he's not busy shooting cardboard bad guys who spout such gems as, "We want money, motherfucker, now get it!" and "Cunts! I kill rich cunts!" I don't know how I lived to be fifty without ever seeing this contrived piece of crap, but I wish I'd lived to be seventy-five without having seen it. Vincent Gardenia phones in a half-awake performance as a beleaguered police lieutenant, and that's the best part of the film.
I got no writing done yesterday. I let the weather shut me down. I did manage, with the help of Kathryn, to sort through an enormous box of miscellaneous work-related papers in my office - contracts, sections of manuscripts, galley pages, programs from cons, magazines, fan mail, and - an uncashed check from 2009 for more than $4,200 from Penguin, partial payment for The Red Tree. I shit you not. Kathryn says it was lost and then a replacement was sent, but I have no memory of any of this. 2009 was a pretty bad year, so I'm not terribly surprised that I misplaced almost $5,000. I am assuming there's no hope of cashing the thing now.
“Writing comes from reading, and reading is the finest teacher of how to write.” ~ Annie Proulx
That's all I have at the moment. I need to turn the music up louder to try and drown out the wind.
TTFN,
Aunt Beast