The papers had screaming headlines about the Storm Barelling Down on Hawai`i, and our Civil Defense team was told to be on alert ... but this morning Daniel dissipated with barely a whimper. It's not even a tropical depression anymore, but just a mass of low-lying humid air.
Too bad. A tropical storm would've made a nice metaphor to cap my week. A wet mass of humid air doesn't have the same ring to it, thought it's probably a more apt metaphor.
The boy is back on the couch. Says it'll be a week. He's still packing. Says he can't stay anywhere he's not liked or wanted. And I flash back to three years ago when I heard the warnings about the drama with this one, and I remember laughing and thinking that no one pulls that kind of drama on me, because I wasn't the kind to put up with it.
Silly arrogant me. So now I'm fighting the impulse to reconcile and make peace for the final week. I've set my mood to light bitch. Anything else and he'll backslide.
Meanwhile, in cyber world: I've been bidding on a few items on ebay: some hard to find DVD's, and a canvas reproduction of The School of Athens. If it's nice I want to pick up a repro of Guernica too.
I got most of the DVD's I wanted: Bertolucci's 5.5 hour Marxist take on the rise of fascism in Italy, 1900; Zhang Yimou's Chinese epic, Red Sorghum; and Ken Loach's take on the Spanish Civil War, Land and Freedom. A fourth, Cédric Klapisch's follow up to L`Auberge Espagnole, Russian Dolls, is still too pricey. Two others are impossible to find: Jean Genet's 1950 art/porno Un Chant d'Amour and Bruce Weber's homage to his favorite things [including the lesbian jazz singer & forgotten rat-packer Francis Faye] Chop Suey.
And then there's Weber's documentary on jazz artist Chet Baker, Let's Get Lost. I've bid for it three times. Three times I have been mysteriously outbid in the final minutes. This would make the great start of a thriller: someone, or something, is buying up all the copies of this movie. Something out there does not want this movie seen ...
Too bad. A tropical storm would've made a nice metaphor to cap my week. A wet mass of humid air doesn't have the same ring to it, thought it's probably a more apt metaphor.
The boy is back on the couch. Says it'll be a week. He's still packing. Says he can't stay anywhere he's not liked or wanted. And I flash back to three years ago when I heard the warnings about the drama with this one, and I remember laughing and thinking that no one pulls that kind of drama on me, because I wasn't the kind to put up with it.
Silly arrogant me. So now I'm fighting the impulse to reconcile and make peace for the final week. I've set my mood to light bitch. Anything else and he'll backslide.
Meanwhile, in cyber world: I've been bidding on a few items on ebay: some hard to find DVD's, and a canvas reproduction of The School of Athens. If it's nice I want to pick up a repro of Guernica too.
I got most of the DVD's I wanted: Bertolucci's 5.5 hour Marxist take on the rise of fascism in Italy, 1900; Zhang Yimou's Chinese epic, Red Sorghum; and Ken Loach's take on the Spanish Civil War, Land and Freedom. A fourth, Cédric Klapisch's follow up to L`Auberge Espagnole, Russian Dolls, is still too pricey. Two others are impossible to find: Jean Genet's 1950 art/porno Un Chant d'Amour and Bruce Weber's homage to his favorite things [including the lesbian jazz singer & forgotten rat-packer Francis Faye] Chop Suey.
And then there's Weber's documentary on jazz artist Chet Baker, Let's Get Lost. I've bid for it three times. Three times I have been mysteriously outbid in the final minutes. This would make the great start of a thriller: someone, or something, is buying up all the copies of this movie. Something out there does not want this movie seen ...
No comments:
Post a Comment