24/07: Sir... you there on fire...
… or ma’am… Point is: anyone I know in the vicinity of Kelowna who is not currently on fire, or who is only smoking slightly, if you happen to read this between fleeing the flames, please take a minute to write, let me know to assure me yer all right/update me on how bad the burns are, etc… I seem presently to be having some trouble with my address book… Migrated this disk a while back, long story…
Oh. Wait. Found it. Never mind. Guess I can send out some emails.
Me, I’m alive ‘n all. It’s quiet, is all…
Too quiet. Like the calm before the storm. Or the moment in the Western just before the gang of outlaws shows up and moons everyone (it’s a comedy… or at least that’s what the director intended, but no one’s laughing). Or like at the family dinner table after Uncle Joe tells that incredibly racist and unfunny joke everyone’s too embarrassed to tell him really needs never to be repeated again ever… Whichever…
About that cowboy film, it gets stranger: sure, some folks are laughing, but for all the wrong reasons, at all the wrong times, and in all the wrong ways… And out of the blue, critics start hailing it as a stinging, satirical masterwork of surrealism, a brilliant and knowing repudiation of all that is wrong in modern cinema, reminiscent of Fellini at his best… It wins the Palme d’Or… And the director, who had once been quite oddly proud of simply being all that is wrong with modern cinema, is unhinged by this unexpected success, and commits suicide immediately after the awards ceremony by shotgunning twelve bottles of champagne—after giving a bizarre, rambling thank you speech in which he thanks everyone on a tiny Pacific island he’s never visited for making him the man he is—and then doing a headfirst dive into an empty hot tub…
The critics love that, too, and award him a Palme d’Or for this performance as well. Posthumously, natch.
Anyway. News: little. Head down, working, developing cabin fever. Yesterday, I made a long chain of paper dolls, named them, re-enacted The Tempest with them, but it was kinda lame, because half the cast were all soggy and limp from that shipwreck it starts with, and neither Caliban nor Prospero really got into their parts… the monster kept singing these cheery Broadway showtunes, which, sure, was monstrous, but not particulary in character, and Prospero just wasn’t coming off as particularly bright. Shoulda known. You never cast the dumb paper doll as Prospero…
Yeah, I guess that’s just about it. Work feels like drudgery. Sure, everyone says that, and probably seeing as (a) I’m working, and (b) it’s not at a landfill in the third world feeding myself with scraps of linen boiled in a kettle, I shouldn’t be bitching, but what can ya do.
Head down… head down (… heads regretfully back to work muttering…)
Oh. Wait. Found it. Never mind. Guess I can send out some emails.
Me, I’m alive ‘n all. It’s quiet, is all…
Too quiet. Like the calm before the storm. Or the moment in the Western just before the gang of outlaws shows up and moons everyone (it’s a comedy… or at least that’s what the director intended, but no one’s laughing). Or like at the family dinner table after Uncle Joe tells that incredibly racist and unfunny joke everyone’s too embarrassed to tell him really needs never to be repeated again ever… Whichever…
About that cowboy film, it gets stranger: sure, some folks are laughing, but for all the wrong reasons, at all the wrong times, and in all the wrong ways… And out of the blue, critics start hailing it as a stinging, satirical masterwork of surrealism, a brilliant and knowing repudiation of all that is wrong in modern cinema, reminiscent of Fellini at his best… It wins the Palme d’Or… And the director, who had once been quite oddly proud of simply being all that is wrong with modern cinema, is unhinged by this unexpected success, and commits suicide immediately after the awards ceremony by shotgunning twelve bottles of champagne—after giving a bizarre, rambling thank you speech in which he thanks everyone on a tiny Pacific island he’s never visited for making him the man he is—and then doing a headfirst dive into an empty hot tub…
The critics love that, too, and award him a Palme d’Or for this performance as well. Posthumously, natch.
Anyway. News: little. Head down, working, developing cabin fever. Yesterday, I made a long chain of paper dolls, named them, re-enacted The Tempest with them, but it was kinda lame, because half the cast were all soggy and limp from that shipwreck it starts with, and neither Caliban nor Prospero really got into their parts… the monster kept singing these cheery Broadway showtunes, which, sure, was monstrous, but not particulary in character, and Prospero just wasn’t coming off as particularly bright. Shoulda known. You never cast the dumb paper doll as Prospero…
Yeah, I guess that’s just about it. Work feels like drudgery. Sure, everyone says that, and probably seeing as (a) I’m working, and (b) it’s not at a landfill in the third world feeding myself with scraps of linen boiled in a kettle, I shouldn’t be bitching, but what can ya do.
Head down… head down (… heads regretfully back to work muttering…)
