Friday, 6 February 2004
The First Thing We Do, Let's Kill All the Bloggers
I hate blogs.
I swore I'd never start one. I don't like the cliquish attitude, the incestuous cross-linking within the "community," the chatter of a million monkeys at a million typewriters creating transcripts of backbiting and gossip. The self-conscious exhibitionism of all-too-personal details by navel-gazers whose self-worth is defined by their audience's reaction to the "audacity" of their writing.
I could pause to cite several blogs that are good counterexamples. I'm even friends with some of their authors. But taken together they still make up a pretty damn small needle, and the haystack remains all-encompassing chaff.
I hate blogs.
Friends, and many of them, have often asked me when I'd start a blog. Almost invariably, the request comes from people who don't keep a blog themselves. Fair enough: I work with the Web, I should be on top of these kinds of trends. Maybe even be at the forefront of them.
Witness: I wrote my first HTML in 1994. Had it online in mid-1995. The first computer I owned was in 1981. I've been a self-proclaimed geek since high school (and ostracized for it).
Ergo, an ideal blogger. I should've been there from the get-go.
Counterpoint: I resisted getting a mobile phone until autumn of 2002. Wasn't connected via high-speed (ADSL) at home until November 2003. Didn't send my first instant message until December of the same year (unrelated reason).
I hate blogs.
But.
I live across the Atlantic from my family and many people who I've long called friends. For three and a half years. I am always woefully behind in my email correspondence. It's been two years that my Web site has consisted of nothing more than "no worries, back soon" and my two-year-old CV.
I keep a personal journal. Kept - it's been a year since I wrote more than an entry or two per month. I want to write so many things, all of them waiting to be written during that small window of time that I never have. Most never get written, and some that do end up reading like meeting minutes instead of personal feelings.
Stone, meet a couple of birds.
So I'm sticking my toe in the water, trying my hand, coming in out of the cold. Maybe I'll crash and burn, but more likely I'll simply fizzle out. Maybe I'll censor myself too much - or then again, regret revealing something.
In any case, this could be an interesting ride. Hopefully for you and for me.
I still hate blogs, though.
Saturday, 7 February 2004
21 Grams
Have I ever mentioned how much I like Alejandro González Iñárritu's work? Probably not.
Here is someone willing to challenge his audience, one of the abilities that I value the most when it comes to an artist. Of all the shorts in 11'09''01, his was the one that had the greatest impact on me - yet I hadn't even known it was his work until much later. Amores perros was excellent, and the goodness continues in 21 Grams.
It's the way that this film keeps you off balance with its pendulum swings through time, getting ever closer to the defining center point of their arc and hitting the extremes that neighbor it. How much is life worth? Hard to say, when you're experiencing it from within - uncertain, confused, myopic, looking for a direction to take or a path to follow.
An impressive trio of lead actors, who Iñárritu gets excellent performances out of. I guess I should add "as usual," except that this is only his second major release. I'm looking forward to his adding more to that list.
4 / 5 : definitely see this one
Apartment Annoyances
From time to time, some things get to me about the furnished apartment that I rent. Especially at this very moment as I'm simultaneously dealing with several of them. Guess which ones!
- Thin walls resulting from subdivided apartments: so that I can hear my two neighbors blasting music; watching TV; talking loud ("loud" like "standing a block apart loud"), on their phone or to each other. Bonus points: the visiting mother from the Ukraine who yells at soap operas.
- Shitty DIY plumbing: so that the spray from the air bubbles in the bathroom faucet goes down my entire front. Remember: there's never a second chance to make the first impression that I have serious issues with bladder control.
- Carpet on several walls and doors and Astroturf on the bathroom floor: seriously. With a margarita-on-the-beach tile motif. Why yes, Mrs. Proud-Mom-of-the-Owner, I could tell that he did everything himself. Goes great with the plumbing.
- Plaster dust and paint spots over almost every surface of my apartment: so that three weeks after I've returned, I'm still cleaning. I've had to break it down into separate projects. My sleeping area and bathroom together took me three continuous hours the night I returned from seven time zones away. After fourteen hours of travel. Which goes perfectly with...
- Incompetent workers: who, despite the following, did a decent repair job. Go figure. Why would an "accidentally" broken window ornament end up under the mattress - on the other side of the room? Where is one of my better pullover sweaters now? (Hint: not in the drawer it was in.) Why did they plaster and paint every white part of my apartment, but not the little red-painted corner with major chunks of plaster missing? Did they feel physically threatened by several boxes of food (unopened when I left, ripped open when I returned), or just unable to buy their own lunches? Did they think I wouldn't notice the floorboard they broke in half - one part pointing straight up? Like the statues on Easter Island, some things remain a mystery.
I reserve the right to bitch and moan more in the future.
Thank you, that is all.
Wednesday, 11 February 2004
Yum
So I just got done with dinner (yes, at 11:30 PM; I'm that kind of guy). It was really good. "Yummy," if you will.
There, now I've done it: descended into the trite, self-involved depths of Hell that I decried at the very beginning of this very blog. Did it in one, two... four entries. That's got to be some kind of record. (Don't say it, I know what you're thinking.)
But it was a really good dinner: colin d'Alaska à la Bordelaise. Which pretty much translates to "baked Alaskan hake with shallots in butter sauce." Also known as "you risk a coronary just looking at that butter sauce." But I love it for the taste, and I get to claim one more whitefish dish in my regular meal selection (take that, Atkins followers).
Also, "bordel" is a less-than-polite way of saying "brothel" in French, which I find pretty funny. But that's beside the point. ("If I ever had one?" O ye of little faith.)
Admittedly, it would've been better had I been sharing a witty conversation with some beautiful woman across from my private candlelight table, sharing the classy vintage wine that I'd selected (impressing the sommelier with my good taste and devil-may-care spending). That, and also if I hadn't instead been eating a frozen meal at home. In my pajamas. In front of my computer. Drinking Sunny Delight.
But besides that, it was a really good fish dinner.
So, that was my evening. How have you been?
...
Oh, by the way: "à la Bordelaise" is not a reference to some sort of a cathouse specialty. I hope you didn't have to read this far to find out that I had just been kidding.
And yes, you can buy Sunny Delight in France. It tastes just as artificial as it does in the US, but at a higher price (still, it's cheaper than drinking real orange juice by the litre and a nice alternative to water).
Thursday, 12 February 2004
Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World
So, I finally got around to seeing Master and Commander. Despite the number of films that I watch, every year there are a few Academy Award nominees that I don't get around to seeing until after the nominations are announced; this was one. Rather than risk missing it in the theatre, I finally set aside the three hours it needed.
I definitely agree with a friend's advice that this was a must-see on the big screen, but not for my usual reasons (usually involving larger-than-life action or amazing images). While he did include some action (and decent action, at that), it felt more like Peter Weir needed every last square inch of screen to show the enormity of the ocean. More subtly, it reminds us that life is a series of greatly impacting moments separated by large spans of... well, "normal stuff."
Okay, this is where we are reminded that John is not a professional movie-reviewer: no matter how I write that bit above, it's going to come out sounding like I'm some pothead expounding on the hidden mysteries of life. Suffice to say that this was a Big Movie, and it needed a Big Screen. Missing it until it came out on video wasn't an option (never mind that I see a lot of films in the theatre anyway).
I liked the direction: the pacing especially worked well with the expansive cinematography. Yet there were nice contrasts, in the cramped interior and the hesitate-and-you-die battles. I liked the hint of an unresolved ending, like a subtle spice in a dish. Too often, major studio films bow to the American cineplex audiences' hunger for tidy endings with no loose threads.
Though Russell Crowe has never been one of my favorite actors, he did turn in a decent portrayal of a leader who'd duly earned his crew's respect. You can understand why a ship's captain is in a difficult position, having to live in close quarters with his men and yet keep his distance. I'm sure that it's as true now as it was then - and even more so in a submarine.
I much preferred Paul Bettany as Crowe's best friend and ship's surgeon. I last saw him in A Beautiful Mind, playing Crowe's best friend and, er, figment of imagination. Anyway, either role is a great improvement from the annoying Geoffrey Chaucer that I remember from A Knight's Tale (then again, that was far from the worst element of that film).
I'd like to see this one win an Oscar, just as long as it doesn't beat out Mystic River or The Return of the King for Best Picture.
3 / 5 : it didn't really float my boat, but a worthwhile movie nonetheless
Friday, 13 February 2004
They Make for Better Listening Than Breathing, Though
At lunchtime today, I picked up a couple of tickets to see Air at the Zénith de Paris. I've liked this duo since their first album hit the US, and I'll finally be able to check off another band from my "want to see but haven't yet" list. (I don't get to concerts nearly as often as I did in the US.)
It sort of makes up for having missed the White Stripes a couple of weeks ago. Which you'd tend to expect, considering that one plays 70's-styled electronica, and the other blues-influenced punk rock. But hey, who's keeping score?
Harking back to the days of my all-ages concert-going, the whole place will be open seating/standing. This is a fine example of what I call the "tyranny of democracy": when everyone is equal, no one is special. The downside is having to arrive super-early just to get a standing spot near the stage. The upside is that I'll have a bunch of youngsters squeezed close enough to prop me up, bolstering my ageing knees and back.
Rock on.
No Biggie - I Already Walk Underneath Ladders, Anyway
A little bit after posting my last entry, I re-remembered (that's a word, right?) that today is Friday the 13th. First one of the year, and in a leap-year February too. (More time to be unlucky?)
I guess it's sort of fitting that tomorrow is Valentine's Day.
Saturday, 14 February 2004
I'm Sure They Had Only My Best Interests at Heart
I just got a spam from one "Long" (Mr. or Mrs., they didn't say) promising a certain performance "enhancement." Apparently, "over 1,000,000,000 males in the world used our product for [sic] last year!"
The subject line simply read, "anamorphic frivolity."
It's a keeper.
Alarm Clock
I don't live in a quiet neighborhood. In the heart of the garment district, delivery trucks daily block the narrow streets as backed-up traffic stretches for blocks. Parisian drivers are famously impatient, and nothing seems to attract their hands to their horns so much as being surrounded by others who are honking theirs.
The exception is the weekend, a 48-hour interlude of quiet. Aside from having paper-thin walls (almost certainly from a cut-rate job to subdivide a larger apartment into two) and the accompanying voices of my neighbors, I rarely have anything disturb me. The occasional bar-goers returning home late at night or sounds from wide-open windows across the street in summer time - little else reminds me that I'm in the heart of a city of twelve million instead of a sleepy little town.
Until this morning. This morning, sometime before the sun was bright or my neighbors turned on the stereo, I was awoken suddenly. At first, I would've sworn that it was a TV or maybe a bunch of teens kidding around. But the screaming went on, and then shouting in some African language.
And then more screaming. And then it was over.
While all this went on, I didn't get out of bed. I didn't open the windows to lean out. I barely even opened my eyes. It was more a nuisance or a curiosity ("I wonder if her friends will help out, or if the police will come first").
See, my neighborhood - home to itinerant workers, Chinese immigrants, young up-and-comers, and many families - my neighborhood is also home to many African prostitutes. Whether they live here or not, I don't know. But at night they take their stations near crossroads and along a close-by street. They linger at the Metro entrance and wander around in front of the Monoprix grocery store.
Even in my half-asleep state, I quickly concluded it was one of these prostitutes who was screaming. Why, I don't know, but I guessed - perhaps correctly, maybe not - that it was a trick turned bad, or a drunk who got too aggressive. In any case, there were shouts from more than one woman and the clacking of running feet after the first screams. The chorus of shouts went on for a few minutes, until the commotion finally died down. The best I can figure is that the police never came because it was shortly resolved by way of "we take care of own." Hopefully police assistance wouldn't have been needed, anyway.
And now, hours later and sitting comfortably in front of my computer, I can analyze the incident. I can break it down and write it out. I can call it an "incident" - not an attempted rape, or possible murder, or "just" a brief altercation.
I can think back to the very first name that came to my mind, even this morning, even mostly asleep: Kitty Genovese. And I can feel chills or anguish or anger or guilt. But the truth is, I'll never know what really went on. I'll pass to the next item on my agenda and I'll continue my life.
I don't live in a quiet neighborhood. This morning, I was awoken by screams and neither I, nor any of my neighbors, did a single thing. That's a sobering thought, a scary one. Hopefully, it's a thought that will really wake me up.
Sunday, 15 February 2004
Another One Bites the Dust
It's the end of the weekend - pretty much literally, since it's approaching midnight as I write this. Another two, short days over. I'd had rather modest plans: Get Things Done™. Unfortunately, like every other weekend since I've returned from vacation four weeks ago, I Didn't Get Anything Done™.
I guess I should have expected it: after going on a pub crawl last night, today was pretty much over before it even began. What I didn't expect is that I'd lose literally the entire day. Mixing beer and vodka shots - not to mention mouth shots of something red and sweet, otherwise unidentified but probably very alcoholic - is a recipe for a hangover.
However, I guess I held my alcohol pretty well: I was apparently very charming in the opinion of one or two very good-looking women (way to go, John). When, or if, that leads to anything remains to be seen - I always seem to be better at making a good first impression than actually acting on it (and now you've posted that here? way to go, John). In other news, my subconscious has apparently gained control of my typing hands.
The bottom line was that the hangover I visited upon myself was very effective, indeed: I didn't get out of bed until after five o'clock. What little remained of the day involved more ritualistic drinking, this time of tea and water, in front of my computer. Oh, well. There's always next weekend. Or not, rather: I'm going out of town for a friend's birthday.
Well, there's always the weekend after that...
Thursday, 19 February 2004
Not Every Picture Needs a Thousand Words
Considering my rather vitriolic entry that kicked off this very blog, I'm sure that some of you are wondering why I even bother. Maybe justifiably so.
Right before I went back to the States for the holidays, I was talking to a friend about how much I was looking forward to my trip. "Take a lot of pictures," she said, "and show them to me when you get back." I nodded, and didn't really give it much thought. Of course I'd take lots of pictures, and happily share them with her (in part because I was really interested in her; things didn't work out, but that's neither here nor there).
But you see, the funny thing is that I'm not the kind of person to "take a lot of pictures." I struggle to get through a single roll in a whole year, much less "a lot" during a short period. Besides, the people and places (save for a couple) were ones I had seen a thousand times before.
Surprisingly enough though, I did it. I went back, I visited my friends - and I took almost three rolls of pictures. That's "a lot" for me. I duly had them processed, got doubles, and brought back the second pair with me to France.
Ever since, they've sat in their plastic sack.
Sooner or later, maybe I'll show them to someone. I don't know, but that's not the point. You see, sooner or later that "someone" may be me. Someday, I'm going to be interested in who I saw and what I did - if only because at one time I already was interested. The important thing is that I actually took the photos, and now they wait for some occasion - happy, sad, silly, serious, frivolous or not - to be looked at again. Bubbles within the rushing waters of life.
Long before blogs came to be, but certainly very long after people had the idea of keeping personal journals, I occasionally wrote out my thoughts. In time, I did the same for my personal Web site. The fallacy of blogging is that writers believe they have an idea so original that no one could have ever conceived of it, yet it seems like everyone else wondered why the hell they needed to wait for the Web to come along.
For me, it was the possibility of sharing with someone else. If so, that was great: I'd connected with a reader I'd never met. Otherwise, at least I'd recorded my thoughts for myself. Many (most?) of them were pretty laughable - and there were (and are) few, no matter what form they took. On the other hand, a blog encourages a writer to record the short bursts of creativity when they strike. It's a new twist on an old technique, and I like it.
For my original site I called them "shower thoughts": the short moments of inspiration that appear in a flash, especially when you least expect them. I guess the term applies equally well to the thoughts that seemed great, but in retrospect really were nothing more than a hiccup. But it's all right to make mistakes, and I suppose I should applaud a tool that - in itself, or because of its novelty - encourages this kind of thing. Just don't confuse inspiration for brilliance.
So that's my typically roundabout way of explaining my thinking and its resulting presence here, in form of my blog. It's rough, it's trivial, but it can also be rewarding. Perhaps not so coincidentally, this very entry was in itself a "shower thought" - or rather, one that came to me on the short walk back home from the Metro.
"Take lots of pictures and show them to me." Here's a snapshot, one of many and no more special than most. Maybe there'll be some sort of story once many are strung together. Maybe even there'll be an audience of more than me.
The Last Samurai
Let's get this over with right away: I don't particularly like Tom Cruise. I never really took a shine to him, no sir, as (someone's - his?) grandpappy might say. I find him arrogant, self-centered, and lacking common sense. Like Keanu Reeves, what he does is less accurately "acting" and more of a reflection of who he is; the difference is that Keanu admits it.
Not that any of this stops me from seeing a film with Cruise in it. Far from it, since it would be my loss for missing high-concept or big-budget movies that otherwise are enjoyable. Like The Last Samurai, for example.
I like Japanese films, especially ones that involve action and swords. One of my favorite directors, Takeshi Kitano, is Japanese. This, however, was neither Japanese nor a sword-and-action film - rather, it's a straightforward story in "exotic" settings aimed at an American audience.
Oh sure, it looked like something serious might develop at times. But for the most part, it was an exercise by the director to draw straight, clear moral lines. I admire the samurai code of honor (and the stories it, and the yakuza variant, allow). But Edward Zwick wasn't interested in moral ambiguities or a challenging storyline. Indeed, it's a foregone conclusion that these are honorable men who have only the best interest of the country at heart. Or more accurately, that the country would be best served only by following the samurai's values.
Isn't it possible to be honorable and misdirected? I'm not saying that the samurai (within the context of this film) were wrong or that Japan didn't lose a lot in is westernization, just that it's possible to draw in a larger palette than the crayons that come in the box. (Speaking of which, none of those crayons draw the real reasons behind this opening of the kimono.) The only real contrast was that between the (missing) potential and what big studios really think of the viewing public (hint: slightly smarter than morons). Perhaps it's fitting that the co-creator of "thirtysomething" directed Samurai.
I'm not going to dwell on how well Ken Watanabe played the consummate leader, or Koyuki's nuanced performance through body language. These are things that you should expect from a good film, not point to as redeeming qualities.
On the other hand, I will go out of my way to mention the sort of our "hero." Is it any more contradictory to the whole value system we've been learning for two and a half hours than to end with such an ambiguous reprieve? If there was anything that showed to me that this was a typical big studio production, it was the captain's ability to have his cake (honorable death) and eat it too (happy life). It's fine with me if he lived (even if it is Tom Cruise) - but in that case, let's not have any suggestions that he died for this noble cause, all right?
I guess I shouldn't be surprised at my reactions, having arrived wondering little more than how fast the film would trot out the obvious thesis of a noble savage in all of us (hint: try the opening minute). I don't regret seeing it on the big screen, and I certainly don't begrudge its numerous Academy Award nominations (well, except for Foreign Language Film - reaching a bit farther than usual, eh guys?). But I don't think I need to see it again - especially when I could see Kitano's Zatôichi for a third time, instead.
3 / 5 : nice concept, beautiful image - nice try, Hollywood, but not quite
Monday, 23 February 2004
Ruminating
It's been a while - maybe years - since I've had scallops, at one time my favorite seafood. But for some random reason I've preyed on these unsuspecting mussels not once, but twice in the last week.
Tonight was printanière de noix de Saint-Jacques crémée aux artichauts (a mouthful, but easier when translated: "scallops in creamed artichoke sauce"; "printanière" refers to a sort of "springtime" style, but I'm no gourmet expert so I can't be more specific). Last Wednesday was also scallops - market-fresh that very morning, served broiled in a butter sauce.
The difference was that tonight had me eating a Picard frozen meal at home and last week I was one of six at a friend's dinner party. Both these meals were good. Still, convenience has a nice bonus: any time the urge strikes, I can whip out a frozen package and ten minutes later be eating steaming scallops.
What I enjoy the most is the latest conventional wisdom about eating well: look at the week as a whole, not each individual day. Which seems about right, considering that besides dining on scallops last Wednesday, we lucky few had pâté de foie gras and finished with a dark chocolate mousse cake from Stohrer (a pâtisserie founded by King Louis XV's pastry chef).
Is it rubbing it in to ask you to guess who brought the cake?
Tuesday, 24 February 2004
Something's Gotta Give
I guess I'm not exactly Nancy Meyers's target audience: male, under-40, and not naturally given to getting myself into "wacky" situations. But then again, I do like seeing a funny movie.
Which is why I was disappointed when Something's Gotta Give seemed more like a series of awkward moments passing for comedy. "Jack and Diane," as the American movie poster un-ironically bills its leads, get off to a rough start and warm up to their roles as the story progresses.
But wait: since movies are filmed out of sequence, wouldn't that mean that the rough moments come and go? So that means that the apparent clumsiness is actually intentional, right? Hmmm.
I'd gladly accept that explanation, except that by "clumsy" I mean that the two didn't so much play their roles as they themselves appeared uncomfortable with their part in the story. It's hard to explain, but I'm willing to play the trump card here and remind you whose mini-review this is. Deus ex machina, indeed.
I wish that there had been at least one ironic reference to Nicholson's real-life penchant for beautiful young women. And the great Frances McDormand got a pittance for screen time, especially considering that she was third-billed (before Dr. Boy-Toy, Keanu Reeves). Keaton was fine, but she was overkill for such a simple film - except such a film needs two top-billed stars, so there she is.
I guess that about sums it up for me: overkill. Too much "situation" in "situation comedy," too many A-list people (including Meyers herself) for what could have been a funny little film. I much preferred the outright over-the-top Meet the Parents: Robert De Niro's straight-man role and the everyone else's hamming it up felt much more natural. "Natural," as in "fun." I just didn't have the same fun here.
As a footnote, I get to mention my own "insider" experiences. The funny thing is, the Paris-in-winter scene on the bridge was done sometime during our historic heat wave of 2003. I didn't see it myself, but a friend watched for more than half an hour as they did take after take of a sweltering (I assume) Nicholson trying to act cool. My personal run-ins were limited to a couple of weekends of having to work my way around a mass of parked trailers on my way (and in my way) to a favorite bar of mine.
2 / 5 : fine, but I probably could've seen something funnier on TV
Wednesday, 25 February 2004
Attention: Oh-So-Subtle Metaphor Contained Within
So tonight's Picard meal consisted of colin d'Alaska à la parisienne accompanied by a bowl of steamed brocolis, pois croquants, courgettes grillées et tomates cerises. That all translates to "Alaskan hake in sauce" along with "broccoli, snap peas, grilled zucchini and cherry tomatoes." Readers will notice a certain hake theme turning up in my menus, thanks for playing.
But what, I asked myself while cooking the fish, exactly defined "à la parisienne"? Literally, it means "Parisian-style," but that didn't tell me much. Maybe it was the tomato-and-mushroom cream sauce? Who knows.
I didn't really have that much time to think about it though. After some three minutes of cooking, the plastic bag enclosing my meal burst open and hot, steaming sauce "à la parisienne" covered just about every interior surface of my microwave oven.
See, despite my best efforts, I hadn't been able to punch steam holes in the sealed package and was now reaping the rewards. After some swearing and much swabbing (on my part), the meal was back into the oven to finish cooking. About that time, it hit me: I knew what "à la parisienne" meant.
I can fairly confidently state that "à la parisienne" translates to "has a propensity to explode under pressure." People here certainly are occasionally less than mild-mannered, and I've unfortunately been both at the giving and receiving ends more than once. Hmmm...
It wasn't until after I'd finished my unexpectedly messy meal that I actually took the time to examine the box it came in. Sure enough, in the ingredients list, there it was: "champignons de Paris." So, the mushrooms are Parisian and thus the meal is so. I felt a little disappointed, quite honestly.
But I know the real truth, and now you do too.
Thursday, 26 February 2004
Laughter Takes the Edge Off the Pain
Today was a pretty shitty day. Those who know me will understand that the simple fact that I used the word "shitty" makes it so, but for the rest let me count the ways:
It was third in as many days that a perpetually delayed project stressed me out to no end. I felt mentally and physically wiped out by the time I crawled back to my apartment. Acting even more asocial than usual, I turned down not one but two different friends' evenings out. Finally - in a fit of pique (or of spite) - my dinner exploded in the microwave.
Fortunately, there were two things that cheered me up. One was an email. The second was a couple of episodes of "Futurama," whose first season my brother had the kindness and foresight to give me as a gift.
Sweet, sweet geek escapism...
Sunday, 29 February 2004
Fuckfuckfuckfuck
My worst string of luck since, like, forever:
- I get my phone bill today. Bunch of calls to Turkey. Funny, exactly when I was on vacation - and the repair guys were here. Bastards.
- Out with friends tonight. Take an unlicensed cab (better than waiting forever in freezing cold during peak demand). My phone falls out of my pocket in the car; don't notice until at club. Try calling him on my number so I can get it back (I never believed, always hoped). Most expensive cab ride ever. Fucker.
- Too down to have fun. Cut out early. Freezing cold. Walking back home, my jacket zipper breaks off. Bugger.
The first are expensive. The last is just life telling me that it likes kicking me when I'm down. Well, screw you too.
Running Up That Hill
Stressed from wondering if our month-delayed project will actually start tomorrow. Sheepish from losing my phone. Sense of humor lost or abducted, and I don't feel like looking for it.
Time to let go and climb back on the horse.
Brunch with my friend Julie and her boyfriend, in town from Stockholm. Nicer to end their visit on a relaxed meal and a short walk than my guiltily ditching them at the club last night.
Otherwise it was a stay-at-home day, trying to get some things accomplished. Finally cleaned the paint and plaster dust off the bookshelf/CD rack built into one of my apartment's walls. Now that much less crap now sitting on the floor and actually accessible.
Spent the afternoon reading a funny online comic to lift my spirits, and am going to watch another episode or two of "Futurama" before bed. No phoning, no email. In short, much-needed downtime.
Appropriately for this weekend, dinner consisted of my remaining portion of exploding fish.