I have no talent for writing reviews, so this will be brief: slow to start, maybe – a bit Norrelish! – but Strange to finish. I am in love with this book. ;)

Turner Classic Movies has been running their annual Summer-Under-The-Stars film fest, and I’m obsessed with recording movies. So far, I’ve recorded 20+ movies, not counting the 24 straight hours of Laurel and Hardy movies and shorts (I love them). Twice now I’ve set the alarm off at 3:00 AM to get up and switch out discs to record movies. Of course, I’m not watching any of them up – I’m storing them up like precious gems for rainy days when nothing will do but an old black and white. Curt thinks I’m crazy, but he just doesn’t understand the kind of love that exists between a packrat and her packrattage.

Tonight, I watched On the Waterfront for the first time ever. Batman: Dark Knight has been routed. I held my breath, I cried, I ached for Marlon Brando to be alright in the end. What a beauty of a performance, truly. And you can’t go wrong using Lee J. Cobb as as an mean and angry white guy. (Has he ever not played a mean and angry white guy?)

I’m also listening to 20th Century Ghosts by Joe Hill. I normally do not trust anthologies by just one author (unless it’s Stephen King, but Stephens are a rare breed), as most writers do not have enough steam in them to chug through an entire book of short stories without veering off track. So far, so good with this one though – he’s got a delicate touch that I appreciate, while still having the power to disturb.

I did not watch the Olympics. I was indifferent, for the most part. I wonder why it is that people are excited about the Olympics, and I am not? What caused me to be indifferent to them? What causes others not to be? Hm.

I find both presidential candidates to be deplorable shysters blowing bilious smoke up everyone’s ass. I don’t believe it is really a personal thing with either of them; if they were not politicians, they might be decent people. It makes me sad, and angry. What a crap world we create with our crap rules.

Ah well. At least we all die some day, and are rid of all the dirtiness and confounded idiocy.

That’s cheery.

I shall now watch Laurel and Hardy to detox. Yay long weekend! ;)

I just finished The Birth of Venus, and thought it was an amazing book.

Wait, let me back up.

I am not a critical reader. I know a good book when I see one, I know poor writing when I’m reading it, but my mind does not do that thing where it squeezes all the symbolism and meaning out of a book while I’m reading it. I basically have two settings: Enjoy!! or meh. I function quite well on these levels. Sometimes I feel like I’m missing out by not reading deeper into things, but then I think, “Maybe some people were meant to drink life to the lees, and some were meant to be sippers.”

I suspect I am a sipper-type. I’m that person that walks into the British Museum, looks around for ten minutes, and then goes, “Well, that’s one down!” (It went very like that, except it was a few hours, and I was shoved out by heat and rude French people.) I just can’t connect to things on that level naturally. I don’t think it’s because I don’t appreciate it – I don’t consider myself a stupid person by any means, but I wonder how many people really enjoy looking at old stuff and how many, like me, are just staring because they think they ought and are sneaking furtive glances to see if anyone else looks as deadly bored? (And actually, I found the British Museum to be kind of depressing. Just a whole bunch of people staring at the stuff of some other, deader people. Like, someday they’re going to have this piece of tupperware I used to hold my lunch in a museum somewhere with a sign saying A crude, but effective plastic food container circa early 21st c.. Like, right now there’s an invisible museum sign pointing to me that says Future dead person, circa ???.)

I wish I were a lees person, sometimes. But then, would be obliged to love EXTREME everything? When I die, am I really going to think, “Gee, I wish I had jumped off that mountain naked with just a doily for a parachute!” or “Gee, I sure wish I had pondered that painting for another thirty minutes!”

I don’t think I will.

I might, you know, think, “Gee, it’s too bad that thing between me and Patrick Dempsey didn’t work out!” ;)

Anyway, this whole thing started because I finished the book. And then I went looking for some clarification of a point I wasn’t quite sure on (that’s what comes of sipping), and found that there were people out there who didn’t like the book! 3.75 out of 5?! That’s like a C. And then, I thought, “Am I a C-book person? Do I like C-books!?”

Well, wait. I do like C-books. Yeah. No, here it is: “Am I a person who thinks C-books are A-books!?”

And then I remembered that whole thing about the museum, and then I thought I’m okay with grading myself on a curve. It would be lovely to be brilliant and deep, like woods that horses like (or something), but I dunno: am I not astounding as I am? I’m only gonna die, anyway. No use in wasting all that depth on a future tupperware mummy-type. And while I live, I’ll just say I thought the book was beautiful. I wanted to be the main character, I wanted to feel her passion for art, I wanted to smell and taste and be immersed in that place, in her story. I get that, and 3.75-out-of-5 gets to keep her measly 1.25.

Sometimes, it ain’t bad to be a sipper.

From the same book, which has given me the pleasure of chuckling out loud twice today:

“The whole angel thing, Declan, came about because I was going to kill myself. And then I bumped into three other people on the top of a tower block who were thinking of doing the same thing. And then…well, to cut a long story short, the angel told us to come down again.”

“Fuck me.”

“Exactly.”

“And you reckon you can get the other three?”

“Almost sure of it.” [...]

“Go on, then. Fuck it. Fuck the expense.”

“Top man, Dec.”

“I think it’s a good idea. I’m pleased with that. Old Declan’s still got it, eh?”

“Too right. You’re a newshound. You’re the Newshound of the Baskervilles.”

From Nick Hornby’s A Long Way Down. It made me laugh this morning. ;)

How do people, like, not curse? How is it possible? There are all these gaps in speech where you just have to put a “fuck”. I’ll tell you who the most admirable people in the world are: newscasters. If that was me, I’d be like, “And the motherfuckers flew the fucking plane right into the Twin Towers.” How could you not, if you’re a human being? Maybe they’re not so admirable. Maybe they’re robot zombies.

I’m listening to “I Am Legend” on my iPod, and it occurs to me what a sad, sad story it is. I want to write myself into the story to keep the guy company.

Two minutes left on lunch. The eye twitching has stopped, and I am willing it not to return. I’m a little worried about the cost of everything. I think it’s about time for a beat down, though, man. Enough of this whining. The church, including all the bullshit accessories to a Catholic wedding (retreat weekend and/or classes, fucking choir, etc.) are concessions that will be made to placate the parents. Everything else, man, is us. It’s war. They’re not getting my reception too, because that would mean we won’t have money for the honeymoon. That’s not happening.

Okay, back to work.