I'm sitting here reading The Habit of Being and I'm distressed to find out Flannery O'Connor loved Catcher. I'm annoyed by intellectuals at the moment. I'm bothered and simply bored with the learnedness and endless allusions; it's all too much thinking and not nearly enough ridiculous hyperbole. I suppose I should want to be more careful in this Internet where our words spread out across the world, and I should want others to be more careful too, in the spirit of charity, and I know the tide is turning against me out there in cyberland where everyone's sick of internet blowhards and snark, but I still want to make wild and unsustainable claims. I still want to embrace the brashness and permission-to-make-idiotic-statements that is the blog's birthright. Have I entered the party too late? I still want to celebrate the lower common denominator (though not the lowest -- we all have our standards and these are mine). I want to say, "Why yes, I just watched the first National Treasure movie and it was pleasantly entertaining, goofy and stupid of course, but endearing with its sleeve all covered in hearts for America, and I hope that doesn't make me some unwashed red state rube -- No! What am I saying?! I gladly accept!" Sheesh, lighten up filmy people, it's not like movies are literature or anything, and if I could say these things to Jeffrey Wells's face, I wish I would...

Our culture is pretty gross right now, I won't deny it, and I'm sure tomorrow I'll be carping over the fact that kids these days can't appreciate a good Frank Capra film anymore -- but sometimes trying to live up to the standards of the smart set is too much of a weight; it bears down on you until you forget why you wanted to read/watch/etc. all this "art" in the first place. And is Capra in or out this decade? I can never find out until the film brains have switched back again and I'm stuck with my nose on the outside glass and singing the praises of You Can't Take It with You...

Would it be too depressing to say that all the old joys now leave me cold? Basically, I'm just not digging the snow as much this year. It's been tons of snow off and on all winter and I've been sledding once so far, hurt my back on the first run down, and was poked in the eye by a tree. I promptly went inside afterward. Normally, the thought of going sledding again would be thrilling; it once was in times of yore, like, say, last year. A chance to regain some glimpse of lost days and grasp at evanescent desires, but dang, it feels like such a chore. Am I disappointing some reassuring image of myself?....

I just realized tonight that my parents rarely listen to music. Sure, just like everybody they listen to music when it's attached to pictures on a screen, but I'm constantly listening to music. The soundtrack of my life, she's always a' spinning. If I'm in the car: radio. Walking to and from buildings: the ipod. On a trip, in my room, while reading, while writing, doing chores, trying to relax: Always music. My parents are another thing entirely. They'll put the car stereo on occasionally; sometimes fire up the Everly Bros. or Beethoven when doing house work, but it's rare. I know they like music. My Dad's an Elvis guy to the point where he sings just like him. My Mom eternally blessed me by passing on a love of the Beatles. Where did I come from? How did I create this need to constantly surround myself in sonic, melodic stimuli? It's not genetic. Is it a generational thing? Am I just another disconnected youth, shielding myself from human contact with quarter and half notes? By the way, as I write this: The Killers, "This River is Wild." I can't help myself; I need the music. And I'm just now realizing that I might be a total freak in this regard and should probably stop airing my obsessions out for all to see.

Movies I'm looking forward to:
The Young Victoria
Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day
Prince Caspian
Indiana Jones and the Crystal something or other