At the Edge of Reason, in the Black Swan Pub

Early reader(s) of this blog may remember the running tale of my screenplay. Tenuous and delicate, the screenplay has seemingly imploded from neglect and out-of-control big-ball-of-rubber-band-like overwroughtness. That and the third writer finished his other script and is working on getting a certain granola-sample-dispensing rising young star to play a key role (i.e., the role of the guy who does the four-way) and this third writer may not have time for sub-nascent malleable concept films about the psyche. Actually, writers number one and two don’t have time for it either.

I’ll now follow up on some things from last week. I still like the new Hold Steady album. It’s welcome has not been worn. Any band that can work in the mascot names of high schools in the western suburbs of Minneapolis, while making jokes about dove-wielding shawl-wearing 70s rock stars AND dissing the overall aesthetic of the 80s is alright by me (someone who wielded doves in the 70s and actually liked the 80s, the latter part of which I drove past said high school on my way to work at the movie theater that only the true believers remember the name of, a theater that was blown up in ’91 to make way for a Barnes and Noble. I believe the very spot that now houses the self-help section once held the lockers in which we hung our powder-blue usher’s jackets and later our blood-red vests. The popcorn room is now anthologies. The box office is now new paperback. And so on.)

I’m still not that impressed with the NBA Finals. I knew all along Dallas-Phoenix was the real championship series. I’m glad to hear that Phil Jackson is coming back to coach the Lakers though; I met his son at a party once. Twice, at two parties, actually. The son’s a good guy and the father seems to be too. They're earthy folk. And Tom Cruise, I’ve discovered by reading a recent interview, is indeed crazy and doesn’t deserve my defending. Poor Katie. You were in Go! And now this is happening to you?