Sunday, February 27, 2011

Eleven eleven ...

This post is another in my "Blogging like it's 2004 series," which is just the way it's going to be once in awhile around here.

At 11:11 a.m. I make one of those generic, wide-reaching wishes that really can't fail if you judge the success of a wish subjectively: I wish that today will be a good day, I think. Throw it out there, into the wind, just in case.


I get up just a wink too late for the "Sopranos: Season 2" party-for-one that Chuck is having on the couch. He's jimmied the window of the deck door with one of our better bath towels to block out the sun. I'm told that nothing makes day-sleeping harder than full-on exposure to sunlight during those primo winding-down hours.

We have makeshift drapes in plenty of places and a tinfoil/cardboard combo in the bedroom. Problem is: Whenever we alter something with the idea of it being temporary, we promptly stop seeing the duct-tape caliber fix until someone who doesn't physically live at this address wonders why we are using a Steve Urkel sleeping bag for a pot holder*. And that is why no one is ever invited to our house. (Well, that and that for 16-plus hours a day, at least one of us is sleeping).

Digression aside, I love these little mini marathons in the daytime. It's all very 1985-sick-day nostalgia. But he'd already busted through two episodes and couldn't commit to staying awake for a third.


I'm having a bad writing day, trying to plunk out some thoughts on Vanessa Davis's "Make me a Woman." It's all: "Me. Like. Pictures. Goot. Funny words." The Radiohead album I'm listening to is too ... noisy. Last night I discovered that playing Joseph Arthur at 45 RPM turns it into a perfect soundtrack for rollerskating. It's not entirely unpleasant. But that stunt is more for middle-of-the-night frivolity than morning hijinks. Speaking of 45 RPM, I opt for Jeremy Messersmith's "The Reluctant Graveyard," one of my go-tos.

I don't wax about the Minneapolis singer I like to call "The Wil Wheaton of music" often enough. About a month ago I realized I was having the kind of emotion-letting I reserve for Cloud Cult to his song "A Girl, A Boy and a Graveyard."

"Huh," I thought. "And there isn't even a string section to explain this."

And then I realized there is a string element and so my theory lives another day: String sections make me weepy.

Regardless, I finish one poorly conceived book review.


I wrap myself in hoods and layers to catch the 2:55 p.m. show of "Blue Valentine" at Zinema 2, and only spend half of the movie worrying that I parked in a tow-away zone.

There is some sort of GNO happening a row behind me. Adult women. Tons of chatter and excitement about stuff. All through the trailers: "So he's taking me on a date-date next Saturday." "A date-date, huh?" "Yeah a date-date. I'll believe it when I see it."

If I were the boss of the planet the planet's motto would be: Movies are not social events.

"Blue Valentine" takes my diaphragm and tugs on it with the weight of the entire cast from "We are the World." I sit there, hood up, chin on knees, bawling for about 40 solid minutes stopping only to consider the ways in which Ryan Gossling has completely reconfigured the portrait of a day drinker. I suspect this movie was created so that some asshole could play hackeysack with millions of souls for 2 hours.


I drive to the YMCA wondering if these legs can carry this much grief on a single elliptical machine, then decide a little exercise might actually help me shed this morose.

I forgot headphones, which is a total deal breaker.
But I realize I have Charles Baxter's "Gryphon" with me, so I can bike and read instead.
I hate biking.
About 2.5 miles and half a short story into the workout I realize that the hole that I thought was unnoticeable in the crotch of my workout pants has become more of a fire exit. Stunned, I drape a towel across my lap and hope that no one noticed.
I cut the workout short and decide to hit the sauna. But instead of the full body glaze, my skin just gets dry. I add water to the rocks, and nothing changes. I look forward to massive pools of liquid in the crooks of my arms and behind my knees, but I'm moving closer to jerky.
So I cut that short, too.


Nothing terrible happens at Target, unless you could the woman on the Rascal ...


I try to nap to "Amanda Knox: Murder on Trial in Italy," but it's too gripping to allow for any Z's and so I stick around for the post-show doc -- which pretty much just reiterates what was just acted out in that Lifetime Network signature standard.

In keeping with that theme, I watch another terrible movie while trying to create a comic journal entry in the smooth stylings of Vanessa Davis.

Then I crank up a documentary about Dominick Dunne and fall head over heals for the old coot. I think I'm going to exhaust his entire collection this summer.

* We are not using a Steve Urkel sleeping bag as a curtain rod. But we have a Steve Urkel sleeping bag, so it is conceivable that it would end up being used in this capacity.


chuck said...

"Why are you using this Steve Urkel sleeping bag for a potholder? And for that matter, why do you have copies of the style section taped to the living room floor?"

Ruralmama said...

I. Think. I. Love. You.