I realize I've been lax with the 6 2/3 lists I promised. I've delivered 4; 2 2/3 to go. I promise to deliver them before March 31, 2007 - the 3/4 point of the decade - when one of the 7.5 lists I will give to you will be the best songs in 3/4 time. Expect many waltzes.
Enough math. I'm back at work. I don't want to be here. Would anyone like to hire a blogger? A poet? A writer of short stories (like the one on Friday which, I'd like to clarify, was written not about recent events; in fact, it's 5+ years old - although in retrospect it may be entirely about recent events). I heard there's free donuts over in the break room. I am refusing the donuts.
I want to be a serious filmgoer. I want to see every gritty indie and ill-translated foreign film. I used to do that in fact. It was fun. It was the nineties. Lately, I'm content to watch Ferrell/Carrell movies over and over again, like a child pressing replay with his/her Toy Story 2 DVD. I'm not proud to say that I've seen the entire ouevre on Zach Braff, although for one of those movies I didn't have to pay (thanks H!). I feel like I'm missing out on something more special. It's not like I can't see obscure arcana in Los Angeles. This city has more movie theaters than the tenets of Buddhism has inconsistencies. I'm just lazy. TV is easier. But even with TV it's easier to watch Anchorman the 17th time than some Turkish film on IFC the first time. Speaking of Anchorman, I may have seen Veronica Corningstone at a book reading on Saturday night. I did see Poe there. Based on overhearing a conversation she was having, I can say that she may be the nicest person in the universe.
The reading was for her brother Mark Danielewski's new book Only Revolutions. I put his last book in my top books of the decade list. This one might be his School Daze compared to the first book's She's Gotta Have It. In other words, not as good. Did he really write a novel in verse? Did he really riff while reading the book on stage like a beatnik poet? Did he really make those hand gestures? What happened to the humble young man who write a giant novel about fear and longing?
That was my weekend: movies, readings, a little football, enough sleep thankfully, a little hermiting, not enough laundry, and I almost forgot about my haircut. In the last 7 years, I've let two people cut my hair, one the daughter of Minnesota glass stainers, the other a Scotswoman and fan of 90s Britpop. Living too far away from the Scottish lass, I tried out a local haircutter. I'm not sure of the results and frankly I'm a little uncomfortable talking about my hair here so I'll stop.