This blog has become entirely too respectable. Time for a drunken ramble. Which is good, since I'm drunk, thanks to a wedding, and feeling all rambly, and now I'm drunk and will write and regret it in the morning. There are worse things to regret on a Sunday morning, I guess.
About 10:43 tonight I had the strongest desire to watch either a Whit Stillman film, a screwball comedy set in New York City, or listen to Vampire Weekend. None of these things came true. How I wish they could! My ipod died on the car ride home and it made me sad. Sometimes I wonder if I'm just entirely too strange and nerdy to ever find someone who can appreciate the thought of Central Park in the rain, a Thursday afternoon on Broadway and 79th, an evening watching French New Wave double-featured with Will Ferrell movies. I'm planning to move to Los Angeles, for a change, for a new career, for the weather, for God knows what, and of course, being from working class detroit, no one seems to understand why, "you're a writer? Oh. so what do you really do?" -- i'm dreaming that in l.a. they don't respond so practically, that in l.a. they'll ask you what you're working on and not judge in that harsh midwestern way, i'm hoping, i'm dreaming, but it's hard to move when you have no cash.
I wish I could muster the intellect to write about the old movies I've watched recently. I saw Raw Deal the other day. Claire Trevor, so flousy-tragic, voice-over noir, how could I resist. It's a chiaroscuro girl-fight between her and Gloria Grahame for the title of Favorite Noir Moll. Dennis O'Keefe is what Dennis Morgan would be if he'd been knifed in the face and sent up to San Quentin for a misunderstanding and a stolen 12 Gs. In a bit of What-the-hell! Dennis O'Keefe was in an episode of Petticoat Junction. Petticoat. Junction.
I would write more if I were motivated. But that's the problem: I'm not. I've watched some perfectly good writable movies -- Raw Deal, Mr. Lucky -- and shows -- PBS's Sense and Sensibility, Mad Men (which I've been rewatching in reruns and I'm not sure if it reinforces Baby Boomer narcissism or rejects it), John Adams, The Tudors (God help me, I'm only watching till St. Thomas More is martyred, I swear!) -- but nothing comes of it. Is anyone else worried that the film blogosphere is dying?
I guess I'm just tired of cyber-conversations. I want to discuss my random interests with a flesh and blood, is there no one else out there in my sad small town who can argue which is better: Pre-Code Babs Stanwyck or Ms. Bette Davis, Hays Code-style, or is Faye-Dunaway-fucking-William-Holden-in-Network better than them all? Can I have an intelligent conversation about Montgomery Clift already? Is there anybody out there who knows what these words mean: Gaius Baltar, Jeremiah Wright, Moqtardo Sadr, Madeline Kahn, Ron Stoppable??? I despair.
In my room, I have an entire wall covered in pictures of the Beatles. It is my Beatles Wall. At this moment, greatest Beatles song ever? Mr. Moonlight.
No. I kid. That's the worst fucking Beatles song in history.
True answer, right this moment? Hey Jude. Anthology 3, track 17 (maybe). I don't care if it's obvious or cliche or too popular, it's a great effin' song and sounds great at 1 am saturday drunk-like. No. Now I'm changing my vote to Rocky Raccoon. Try writing a masterpiece like that Mick and Keith!
I heard the best wedding toast tonight. My cousin -- the best man at his brother's wedding -- three lines (if that), ending with "To health and happiness." Perfect. We were rolling, everyone at my table. It followed fifteen minutes of bad poetry and crying and barely funny "funny" stories, which however heartfelt they may seem to those who are saying them had me wishing for a double gin martini to go with my Jack and Coke and put me to bed momma.
Then! A message sent down from heaven, the best man's (my cousin's) speech was an antidote, the equivalent of those old Oscar speeches where Clark Gable simply says, "Thank you very much" and then sits down. Succinct, gracious, maybe ten seconds in length. Rub-a-dub-dub time for some grub. It was the Gettysburg Address of wedding toasts.
Now: I'm sminking of gin. Only about 0.02% might ever get that reference, but for those of you who do, you're welcome. See: Rocky Raccoon, above (Anthology 3)
This isn't nearly as funny as it should be, i'm frickin' drunk yo! Oh well. Regret: The best motivation to do better next time.