a co-worker of mine judges the worth of an action movie by counting the number of stunt men in it. Terminator 2 wins, he says, because it has 68 stunt men. wow. movie productions amaze me. I was once an extra on The People Vs. Larry Flynt, and I was there for only 1 day, and for only 1 scene. it took over 12 hours. and I thought producing a web site was difficult. Ed Norton kept messing up his lines. it was a long, long day. but my forehead made it in the movie (check out the supreme court scene, and look towards the side of the court for a moving forehead.) my only other brush with fame was when they filmed The Rainmaker in Memphis, and my best friend worked at the bar where they were shooting a scene. some guy who looked like a frat-boy was serving drinks from the bar. I didn't pay much attention to him. I found out later he was Matt Damon. Danny DeVito (he really is that short) was there, and I got his autograph. (I was so nervous. what was I thinking?? it's just Louie...) but the only pen I had was one I'd brought from home - a heinously ugly pink Avon pen, with a big gold and pink bow on the end - so when I gave it to him, he just looked at me with a little smile, looked at the pen, and looked at me again - didn't say a word except to ask my name, and signed the menu. I laughed.
June 1999 Archives
I often take the bus to work. and I often see the same people board the bus. there's the old man with a crutch who boards on 31st, and always wears aviator sunglasses, and he looks like a cross between Hemingway and Bukowski...he's very grumpy, and if he doesn't get the seat up front right behind the plexiglas, he gets very crabby indeed. he grunts something at the person sitting in his seat. sometimes they move, and sometimes they don't. and there's a native american girl who gets on with her infant daughter, with another girl, and the mother's eyes are always so bright, and she always seems so content, but excited about something at the same time. but my favorite person on the bus is a female Elvis impersonator who boards at 25th street, who always gives the bus driver a smile, and she usually sits in the jump seats up front...she has a bouffant, jet-black hair, and often wears BB King's club t-shirts, or an "I Love Elvis" button, or some kind of "I Love Jesus" item. she always seems so happy and enthusiastic. sometimes I hear her talk to others about her nation-wide travels doing Elvis impersonation contests.
I've noticed, when I talk with people who spent their youth in the 1940's and 1950's, just how much cars are a part of their memories. they'll talk about the time they piled 16 people in a '55 Chevy and went for a ride, or the time she sneezed in her brand new Studebaker and rear-ended someone in her reflex, or when they would race down the country roads at night in their '57 Chevy, '53 Dodge, and '56 Fords. cars don't seem to be as much a part of a (American?) teenager's narrative anymore. it's hard to imagine most of my high school friends reminiscing 50 years from now about their Ford Escorts or K cars.
I submitted my mellifluous, stunningly hatched piece of ennui-birthed prose to the illustrious Bulwer-Lytton Bad Fiction contest:
Wallace was transfixed upon her frame: She whirled, arms embracing the air like flaccid leeks, her buttocks squeezing rhythmically to an early 1980's beat...his eyes stung with hot abandon as he watched her neck sprout congealed barnacles of moisture, her torpid expression reflecting some distant memory; indeed, his imagination bloated with the thought of her - but suddenly, his runaway reverie was interrupted - and she alighted the Nordic Track in a belching heave.
I had a great lunch with jason today. we talked a little about the nature of weblogs. I don't consider the nubbin a weblog. weblogs are great, and there are a few I visit repeatedly - but my definition of a weblog (or "'blog," as peter calls them) is like 80% links, and maybe 20% personal notes, at the most. the nubbin is way too self-centered to be a weblog.
on a completely separate note: I like eating outside.
separate note #2: finally, work is winding down (a little) and my feeble noodle has time to meditate on other things...
Metaphors We Live By (George Lakoff, Mark Johnson)
really really old chinese and indian (Jain) art
why is my belly-button so different from colin's?
whatever happened to my ColecoVision?
what does cognitive science offer the online world?
why do Beanie Babies still exist?
Y2Que?
I should console myself, knowing this asshole (not someone I work with or know personally, just someone I have to deal with as part of my job) is actually a miserable, pathetic person, and I should feel sorry for him. that would be "taking the higher road." I should remind myself that his patronizing, condescending, infuriating, prickish, belittling attitude shouldn't be taken personally. I should remember that he's really a sorry person inside. I should try to kill him with niceness. why do miserable people have to slash and burn everyone around them? why am I bothered so much by what this prick thinks?
my parents were here all weekend to celebrate Father's Day and my birthday. we did all kinds of touristy things, like driving around the lakes, eating German food at a kitschy restaurant, eating sushi, going to the St. Paul cathedral. I was very glad to see them. that feeling wore off a bit, however, after I realized just how hard it is to have a meaningful conversation with my father. my mother and I generally communicate well, if we steer clear of certain topics (e.g., my father), and we're very close. at the same time I enjoyed showing them where I lived, it was a gut-wrenching weekend...but I realized how I'd changed when I discovered how little I cared about what they thought of me. once I stopped trying to make them (my father) proud, or get them (my father) to tell me I was a good person or doing the right things, I stopped being so irritated. and I could almost feel myself pull together, and stand upright, like one of those little puppets that stand taut when you release your thumb from the button underneath their feet.
this morning I saw a man standing in his front yard, eating a bowl of cereal.
I've been working insane hours lately, trying to get this damn project done, and my normal life needs went grossly neglected. I've managed to shower and brush my teeth, but that's where it stops. I couldn't remember the last time I bought groceries. so you know what my sweetie did? he went to the grocery store and bought me groceries. and the night before, I worked late, and he drove to my office to pick me up, and bought me some drinks, and listened to me vent about work, and made me laugh and forget about things. he knew exactly what I needed, and he gave me even more.
need some freelance web work done? HTML/JavaScript/Flash? let me know.
things I can't do before noon: eat chocolate, drink beer, have a sense of humor, not squint, listen to Pink Floyd.
my level of discontent has reached new heights. or lows. depending on how you look at it. I've been working such extreme hours lately...and I get to watch the days slip by, without giving much of anything, to myself or anyone else. I need to paint/play piano/volunteer/dance/laugh...this must be what it feels like to have your chi all out of whack. or is it chakra? my chi and my chakras have had their panties in a wad for too long.
