Day the Eighteenth


Feeling under the weather today. I guess all of us on earth are literally 'under the weather'. Do astronauts tell their fellow astronauts 'I'm feeling a little bit above the weather today?' Anyway. I think I'm coming down with something nasty. Hopefully it's not shingles or a bad case of the gout or something. Not to be too much of a downer. Sitting in class after walking through the rain has got to be one of the shittiest things. Especially if you're wearing a sweater, all that steam, damp and never fully dry, like a wet afghan.I shouldn't complain. My socks were dry and my nose wasn't running, but now I'm all achey and have a kind of chill. Is it the impending war? Maybe nerves? Impending nerves? Saw a funny article today. Apparently, Peter Jackson decided his first two installments of the The Lord of the Rings were too adult, not enough for the kids who buy all the merchandise. So New Line has decide to incorporate a character named Jar-Jaromir, the half-brother of Boromir and Faramir of Gondor. Looks like there will be a funny scene where Jar-Jaramir decides it would be best to just give the ring to Sauron, but he drops it and accidentally kicks it into Mount Doom, thus saving Middle-Earth. I wouldn't be surprised.

Day the Seventeenth

The other day I made the mistake of watching the 400 Blows while I was feeling a bit depressed. I guess I subconsciously felt the need to embrace my sadness by reexperiencing what is certainly one of the saddest films ever made. In the middle of it all, I found precious moments of joy that I had almost forgotten: Antoine's exhilerating ride in the amusment park Whirligig, the beautiful faces of the children at the puppet show, the long run to the beach that culminates in one of the most exquisite freeze frames in cinematic history. But I still didn't feel any better. Thanks, Truffaut. Jerk.

Day the Sixteenth


Something oppressive about the rain today. I usually enjoy wet days, but I wore the wrong shoes. These old saddle shoes with cracks in the soles. I forgot to change them when I stopped by the apartment. It wasn't really the rain I guess, but wet socks that got progressively worse as I walked back and forth between libaries. Something oppressive about wet socks today. When aren't wet socks oppressive, huh? I guess that's the question. Here's another question: Have you ever read something quite as boring or uninteresting as this entry? I mean really. Where is my mind? My apologies to Kim Deal and Black Francis. My apologies to everyone.

Day the Fifteenth


Recently I've been spending some time with the Maysles Brothers. Having only seen Gimme Shelter, I wanted to visit Salesman and Grey Gardens and see what these films were all about. These three films together constitute what I would consider some of the finest documentary filmmaking I have seen, much more insightful and poignant than most fiction could ever hope to be. The Brothers treat their subjects with reverence, wisely allowing the narratives to unfold naturally, without much interjection, unless initiated by the subjects themselves. Edith Beale and her mother, both the subjects of Grey Gardens, are simply fascinating; eccentric, to say the least, stuck in the past, lost in old photographs and memories of youth, these women are true relics, and the Maysles simply let them talk. That's all that's necessary. Off to work. Sorry so short. More about the Maysles later.

Day the Fourteenth


When I was a kid, my dad used to tell me that if I swung all the way around on our swingset out back, that I would come down turned completely inside out. This was very funny to him, and I could never understand how he could think something like all of the guts in my body hanging out could be something to joke about. This is the same man who left the window of his Porsche 924 down for an entire winter, and could not understand why the door fell of in the spring. Taxi Driver was the only film he simply forbid me to watch when I was young, claiming that Travis Bickle's hyper-violent spree at the end was simply too convincing. Of course, I secretly watched it, and he was right. However, he had no problem allowing me to watch The Exorcist with him when I was nine, under the condition that I had to promise not to crawl into bed with mom and dad in the middle of the night. I thought I could handle it, so I consented to his terms. I made a mistake. He was an unhealthy man; he overate, smoked too many filterless Camels, and, needless to say, did not get enough exercise.But his humor had a profound effect on me, and at his funeral I could not help but recount stories about my dad that illustrated just how wonderful his sense of humor really was. I hated egg salad sandwiches when I was a kid (still do) and I remember once in a restaurant, he ordered one while I feasted on my standard grilled cheese. I couldn't help but notice how much he was enjoying his disgusting sandwich, and I began to rethink my fear of egg salad. He saw my eyeing his food, and asked if I wanted a bite. If dad likes it, I thought, maybe I should give it another try. I said yes. So he bit me. Not hard or anything, but I was little and I started to cry, thinking he was the meanest dad in the world at that moment. Plus his breath smelled like a fart. He felt so bad, naturally, that we went to Baskin and Robbins afterward and had chocolate chip mint ice cream. At night I think about my dad the most. He never got to see my band, never got to hear our records or hear us on the radio. At night, I miss my dad the most.

Day the Thirteenth


Met a guy today named Philip Quincy Buffington. Surprisingly, he was not wearing an ascot, he was not, to my knowledge, on his way to the Hamptons in his Studebaker, he did not seem to be late for a cricket match, a polo tournament, or celebrity smoker; no, he did not address me as 'my good man,' he did not mention anything about a girlfriend named Muffy or Tippy, and he was not drinking a Mint Julep, nor did he make mention of any kind of craving for a Hot Toddy; his snifter collection was conspicuously absent from our exchange, he made no allusion to a recent trip to 'islands' of any kind; yes, he had good teeth, would never be caught dead wearing a bolo, and he most definitely thinks that the Apple G4's are 'so 2002,' nowhere in our discussion did he refer to anything as 'gauche,' nor did he exclaim 'Excelsior!' at any time, though I felt that he wanted to very badly. His skins was waxy brown, but he assured me it was from that oppressive Seattle sunshine that we all are accustomed to. No, he was simply a square-jawed young man named Philip Quincy Buffington, and that was, perhaps, the strangest thing of all.

Day the Twelfth


Beautiful day here in the Emerald City. Warm with a chill; the sun is trying. Traffic always seems to be the worst on days like this. People scrambling to get out of town for a day, to get back to nature in their $50,000 SUV's. I love how commercials for these behemoths always show some family giggling like morons as they drive their status symbols up impossible slopes, only to make it to the very top of some mountain that no human has ever previously reached, just as the sun is burning red at sundown, sinking behind the most breathtaking vista that would never be seen without the help of their big fat car. Are you kidding me? No one is going to drive something that expensive into the untamed wilderness (is there any left in America?) just to get back to nature. You'd scratch the paint, maybe blow a tire, and there are no lattes in the woods. Wanna get back to nature? Spend $50 on a comfortable pair of walking shoes and go for a hike, you lazy goof. You don't have to fill them up and you won't blow a sole, and, best of all, you won't be helping to perpetuate the ridiculous notion that you have to fork over 3 years worth of income (at least for some of us) to get back to basics. Go ahead. Buy a monstrous car. They're comfortable, they're fun to drive, they make us feel powerful, in control of our surroundings, sexy. Just don't pretend that there are other reasons for your purchase. That transparent dishonesty makes the SUV owner such an easy target. Even if I could afford it, I'm just not buying it. And besides, it's still a gorgeous day in the Emerald City.