why blog

I'm confused. Why do this. Such a solitary thing, writing. Why write and post, for whatever nut or bored malcontent who happens upon an unknown site to find. Seems ridiculous. Words and thoughts are private. I speak as little as possible but write as much as possible. Nothing leaves my password protected computer. Granted, I'd never post anything of reasonable consequence on a random weblog but why would anyone? Why would I or anyone else. Self gratification, boastful intentions, whatever the case may be. I'm baffled yet intrigued. A weblog is nothing more than a diary with no key. My sister had one of those little Holly Hobby or Strawberry Shortcake or whatever the hell it was diarys with the goofy little plastic lock. But I don't recall ever reading it. I probably did, just because I could. But the point is, I wouldn't remember anything if I did, just that I did. And I don't even remember that. More to the point, it's not what is said, it's the fact that it can be said. Think I'll write some more though.

The Road

new trailer, finally. for now, here: http://movies.yahoo.com/premieres/13468916/standardformat/.

Anticipating this one. Tried 5 (that's five) times to read McCarthy's tome, to no avail. It's just too good. Dark, depressing yes, but that's not it. It's painfully beautiful, more so than any pages I've known. Maddeningly poignant and touching. And again, I never advanced past page 40. Some day I will get to it, when the pain and beauty wear off a touch.

the wait, the chase, the lacking

I've read several times lately of kids about my age - I'll say mid-thirties, which is true but appalling - going through a bit of a mid-life crisis sort of thing. Maybe not "mid-life crisis" mid-life crisis but something of the sort. Most of the occurances, whether real or in my little premature mid-thirties head, seem to be to the effect of post divorce, past even the beginnings of a second career, getting that third degree or second masters and essentially getting one's shit together.

Not to mention names but I've heard of more than a few of these sick little instances. I mean, good for them and all, but I haven't yet experienced the first one. These folks had it together, or even didn't but they had something, got wise, got out and begun again. What in hell have I been doing? That's what concerns me. That's what keeps me up at night, while wasting more time. Melodramatic? A bit, yes. More to come. More whining, more of the same.

favorite movies

picking favorite movies is dangerous business. no way can you think of an accurate top 5 or top 10. something will always hide from memory. that said, here's a few necessary ones.

godfather, both of them ("part 3" shouldn't count)
kicking and screaming (baumbach, not farrell [not that there's anything wrong with that])
four weddings and a funeral
true west (s shepherd filmed play with malkovich/sinese)
lebowski

a half step below:
vanilla sky, which hurt on a number of levels
jesus' son, also which hurt and then numbed and then forgot what all the fuss was about
true romance

an intro to the tame and neurotic

I recall a napkin from about years ago. bar nap. lynaugh's pub. it said on the back twenty four years old and still stupid. no, i didn't write it. i was stupid, but was twenty-two at the time. was likely a whiskeytown show, maybe early wilco, when they were still playing little clubs. maybe it was the v-roys. but i remember that napkin and what it meant. to think, we had the knowledge that we were stupid in our early to mid twenties. but that knowing meant something. it was a look to the near future. a telling glance that we had certain things to offer - certain things, any things like art, passion, music, poetry, ability to hurt another, to mold another, to reach another, to collect and gather, to create, to destroy. and that was fifteen years ago. i remember that napkin, remember it well.