Don't kid yourself you've seen it all before
I had another birthday and am now officially an old man and my age has caught up with my general curmudgeonliness. Well, not really, but it's one step closer to being able to shake my walking stick irritably at those pesky young 'uns and periodically having to replace the leather patches on my cardigan. Someone get me my pipe and slippers. Don't you kids have somewhere to go? And get the hell off my lawn.
I had a blast, spending the day with the people I love. Angie and Maddox made the day special but then I don't need a birthday for them to do that. I am a lucky man, incredibly lucky. Maddox made me a card - I have no idea what it's supposed to be but I'm assured the stick figures are supposed to represent the three of us, and I had the whole teary-eyed uncle, I'm so goddammed proud of my nephew moment. He's an amazing kid. When I look at him and Angie, it makes me hopeful for the whole damn human race, it really does.
The glorious Gina whisked me off for an evening of drink and dancing and cocktails so ridiculously elaborate I'm sure she invented them on the spot, including a purple concoction that I could swear was three parts jetfuel. The lady would make a kick-ass bartender. She'd make a kick-ass anything. We both wore too much makeup and I was her little boy bitch for the evening.
I don't feel like working much right now. There seems to be some dissonance whenever I try and write something, so at the moment it's either adolescent angsty bullshit-ridden ramblings or abstract, terribly meaningful observations written in script form. Everything is either indicative of the human condition and what a shitty state the world is in, or it's just an opportunity for me to jerk off. Whatever, it never comes out quite the way I'd intended and the meaning is always changed in the execution. It's like a process of slow exsanguination - the blood in the veins is blue, mysterious, moves at its own pace and is to all intents and purposes your own and unseen; you cut the vein, split the skin, and it's red and it runs. It looks like everyone else's. For christ's sake somebody give me a real fucking job.
I was thinking today, that there's only two possible responses to "I love you". It's either "I love you too", or "I know". Unless of course you want to be an asshole about it. And then of course there's the time-honored response of mute disbelief or blase acceptance. I've been guilty of the former and hope never to experience the latter. I'm happy about being old, but I hope never to be blase about anything.
I'm off to Cannes.
I had a blast, spending the day with the people I love. Angie and Maddox made the day special but then I don't need a birthday for them to do that. I am a lucky man, incredibly lucky. Maddox made me a card - I have no idea what it's supposed to be but I'm assured the stick figures are supposed to represent the three of us, and I had the whole teary-eyed uncle, I'm so goddammed proud of my nephew moment. He's an amazing kid. When I look at him and Angie, it makes me hopeful for the whole damn human race, it really does.
The glorious Gina whisked me off for an evening of drink and dancing and cocktails so ridiculously elaborate I'm sure she invented them on the spot, including a purple concoction that I could swear was three parts jetfuel. The lady would make a kick-ass bartender. She'd make a kick-ass anything. We both wore too much makeup and I was her little boy bitch for the evening.
I don't feel like working much right now. There seems to be some dissonance whenever I try and write something, so at the moment it's either adolescent angsty bullshit-ridden ramblings or abstract, terribly meaningful observations written in script form. Everything is either indicative of the human condition and what a shitty state the world is in, or it's just an opportunity for me to jerk off. Whatever, it never comes out quite the way I'd intended and the meaning is always changed in the execution. It's like a process of slow exsanguination - the blood in the veins is blue, mysterious, moves at its own pace and is to all intents and purposes your own and unseen; you cut the vein, split the skin, and it's red and it runs. It looks like everyone else's. For christ's sake somebody give me a real fucking job.
I was thinking today, that there's only two possible responses to "I love you". It's either "I love you too", or "I know". Unless of course you want to be an asshole about it. And then of course there's the time-honored response of mute disbelief or blase acceptance. I've been guilty of the former and hope never to experience the latter. I'm happy about being old, but I hope never to be blase about anything.
I'm off to Cannes.