Christmas on Ice
I am on sensory overload. After going to Shakertown for dinner with the extended and semi-family, my brother and his girlfriend revealed that they had not really gone to a professors' party with cheese, but had wanted to surprise me with my recommended cheeses in a roundabout way. But then I explained the cosmic symmetry, how I had gone to a professor's house, where I was given cheese.
The revived Internet has allowed me to re-evaluate the past year's music: the misunderstood Fiery Furnaces, which seem more legitimate in light of the faster connection and recent PoMo leisure reading (EMRFABW and White Noise), Animal Collective, which made more sense in snippets longer than thirty seconds and The Go! Team, which made more sense after seeing Kill Bill and listening to Ennio Morricone.
I christened my laptop's DVD drive on Wednesday night with Amadeus. Since then, I have watched Hero, Napoleon Dynamite, Trainspotting, Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, and parts of Return of the King (extended). Trainspotting changed me in a shaken to the core sort of way, Whatever Happened to Baby Jane renewed my faith in classic comedy, and Napoleon Dynamite suddenly became one of my favorite movies ever. On a cultural/historical level, it reclaimed the high school comedy genre from the IDIOTS, though it seemed to be more closely related to Ghost World than Scary Movie from the beginning. It ranks up with the Death to Smoochys and Office Space as one of my favorite comedies if for no reason other than that it seemed mundane and plausible (I might call it post-modern fractiousness if I wanted to get technical).
I actually completed all of my Christmas shopping in a few hours without leaving the city. A squirrel-proof bird feeder for Dad; a rosemary topiary for Grandma; a CD book (Silas Marner) and a book of 100 short stories (Teller of Tales, actually found a few weeks ago in the Public Library's giveaway box); The Day After Tomorrow for Sister, Van Lear Rose, The Triplets of Belleville, and Meet the Parents for Parents; and profuse gratitude for Uncle who has everything already and the generosity to "invest" in my future.
I stayed up last night to finish This Side of Paradise, which was disappointing, considering the author and subject matter, mostly because of the aimlessness and untimeliness of the obscure pop and literary references, which are as relevant now as this entry will be in 80 years.
I received to the letter what was on my list: CDs of varying hipness, the Kill Bill volumes, Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, along with some surprises: a print of a shoddily-repaired stone building ornament in Italy, a poster of Naples, socks, as well as flamboyant gold-monogrammed 'S' notecards.
Maybe the weather didn't turn out as hoped. Before I went to bed on Wednesday, I heard the sound of flakes missing their targets and rain falling unfrozen, but it was enough for me to legitimately miss the student-run practices without any remorse or fear of retribution from the zealots.
The ice storm bested everything else, turning the roads into miles of chandelier and prism-lined corridors. On a slippery, late afternoon run yesterday, the woods near the railroad glowed an unbroken white light off in the distance. Nobody would have believed a photo, let alone a painting. I thought of one of my teachers.
The revived Internet has allowed me to re-evaluate the past year's music: the misunderstood Fiery Furnaces, which seem more legitimate in light of the faster connection and recent PoMo leisure reading (EMRFABW and White Noise), Animal Collective, which made more sense in snippets longer than thirty seconds and The Go! Team, which made more sense after seeing Kill Bill and listening to Ennio Morricone.
I christened my laptop's DVD drive on Wednesday night with Amadeus. Since then, I have watched Hero, Napoleon Dynamite, Trainspotting, Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, and parts of Return of the King (extended). Trainspotting changed me in a shaken to the core sort of way, Whatever Happened to Baby Jane renewed my faith in classic comedy, and Napoleon Dynamite suddenly became one of my favorite movies ever. On a cultural/historical level, it reclaimed the high school comedy genre from the IDIOTS, though it seemed to be more closely related to Ghost World than Scary Movie from the beginning. It ranks up with the Death to Smoochys and Office Space as one of my favorite comedies if for no reason other than that it seemed mundane and plausible (I might call it post-modern fractiousness if I wanted to get technical).
I actually completed all of my Christmas shopping in a few hours without leaving the city. A squirrel-proof bird feeder for Dad; a rosemary topiary for Grandma; a CD book (Silas Marner) and a book of 100 short stories (Teller of Tales, actually found a few weeks ago in the Public Library's giveaway box); The Day After Tomorrow for Sister, Van Lear Rose, The Triplets of Belleville, and Meet the Parents for Parents; and profuse gratitude for Uncle who has everything already and the generosity to "invest" in my future.
I stayed up last night to finish This Side of Paradise, which was disappointing, considering the author and subject matter, mostly because of the aimlessness and untimeliness of the obscure pop and literary references, which are as relevant now as this entry will be in 80 years.
I received to the letter what was on my list: CDs of varying hipness, the Kill Bill volumes, Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, along with some surprises: a print of a shoddily-repaired stone building ornament in Italy, a poster of Naples, socks, as well as flamboyant gold-monogrammed 'S' notecards.
Maybe the weather didn't turn out as hoped. Before I went to bed on Wednesday, I heard the sound of flakes missing their targets and rain falling unfrozen, but it was enough for me to legitimately miss the student-run practices without any remorse or fear of retribution from the zealots.
The ice storm bested everything else, turning the roads into miles of chandelier and prism-lined corridors. On a slippery, late afternoon run yesterday, the woods near the railroad glowed an unbroken white light off in the distance. Nobody would have believed a photo, let alone a painting. I thought of one of my teachers.