I've got a few things to whine about and then we can talk about happy things, okay blog? Just so you know, this post will be one of unabashed narcissism.
1. I can't make this silly blog look nice and I am tired of fiddling. Blah.
2. On the topic of blog design, I don't like the new template designer thingy. It gives error messages all the time and is inconvenient. And I fear change.
3. I can't seem to get to bed before three these days. What's the deal?
4. I realized this afternoon that I don't like some of my facebook friends. Which is terribly mean of me to say, but there it is. And anyways I just made a rule that says I can be as mean as I want to on this blog. So there.
Okay, that's all. Here are some happy things.
1. Amelie. I saw it for the first time the other day and then watched it again the next day. And again the next day. My gosh.
2. Netflix. What a terribly nice thing. Last night, dad and I watched an episode from a lovely space documentary (How We Left Earth or something like that) on instant watch. Rear Window came today. On The Town (which was mildly awful but had Gene Kelly) and To Kill a Mockingbird and The Italian Job (also not the best movie ever, but certainly enjoyable. I like heist movies.) recently went back to Netflix. I imagine the housing place as a giant vault with bookshelves stacked with mix-matched shoe boxes of DVDs. And guys in glasses who look like Mac from the Apple commercials bustling around chatting about the movies with one another as they send DVDs off to people. (I know it is killing traditional rental stores, but I don't feel particularly sorry for rental shops when they make me pay six bucks a movie.)
3. Reading in the bathtub for hours and hours. One of the many delights of summer vacation.
4. Music. Pomplamoose's Tribute to Famous People. Vampire Weekend. The Beatles. French singers in general. the soundtrack from An Education. Sinatra and Bobby Darin and Michael whatever his name is. Gosh, music is a wonderful thing.
5. Sad, scary poetry.
6. Reading books by people much, much smarter than me and then adopting their superior literary loneliness, even though I don't have the brains to be crushed by, like, Dostoevsky the way the writers are. I can barely spell Dostoevsky. But I enjoy walking around Super Walmart in a kind of huddled despair and wondering if I'm the only person with a soul. I bet I enjoy abandoning myself to the sorrows of these writers more than they did themselves when they actually had them.
7. I've also enjoyed wondering if this move will become the Personal Tragedy That Fuels My Art. (Yes, in caps.) You know what I mean? A good number of really great actors and painters and writers were either wacko or had parents who gave them drugs or something. My theory has always been that if you want to be really great at something you either have to have talent or a personal tragedy. You just can't make it if you're mediocre and like your parents. I've always been sorry knowing I could never do anything great - my home life is ridiculously happy and I have no talent of any sort. (Scratch that. I have one talent. I can sing one or two lines from different Beatles songs one after another without pausing - like switching radio stations - for approximately nine minutes. Although, some people I know do not call that a talent.)
But, what have we here? A recent and possibly scarring out-of-state move! If I play my cards right and cry a lot, this could be my tragedy. How awesome is that? Who cares if moving is actually not that bad - in interviews I could talk about the angst of it all and look troubled! I've got a golden ticket, baby!