who?
twenty second june | half twelve ante meridiem
His cheap polyblend suit fit him like a stable fits a horse.
"Well, you do get up," she said. "I was beginning to think perhaps you worked in bed, like Marcel Proust."
"Who's he?" I put a cigarette in my mouth and stared at her.
"A French writer, a connisseur in degenerates. You wouldn't know him."
"Tut, tut," I said. "Come into my boudoir."
Mulholland Drive vs. L'avventura:
MD:gothic metaphor::LA:objective correlativeMD:the uncanny::LA:metonymy
MD:flirting::LA:glaring
MD:lezzing up::LA:zzzzz
I watched The Limey tonight. Steven Soderbergh has a nice visual and conceptual imagination but uniformly awful scripts. Traffic is a series of pretty images whose story is among the most incompetently told I've ever seen. TL was much the same. The only exception is Out of Sight, but that's because the movie followed the book exactly (and the book is grebt).
Last week my boss used the word "varmints" unironically.
Lenin had announced his intention to visit Helsinki. The city fathers were overjoyed and commissioned a painting to commemorate the occasion. The subject matter was left up to the painter's discretion, so long as the work was titled "Lenin in Helsinki".
When the big day arrived, the work was unveiled at a lavish ceremony, attended by all the city dignitaries. They were shocked. The painting depicted a nude man and woman lying in bed among mussed sheets.
"W-w-what is this?" cried the mayor of Helsinki, "Who is that woman?"
"That is Nadezhda Krupskaya, Lenin's wife," replied the painter.
"Then who is that man?"
"That's the head of the secret police."
"What? Where is Lenin?"
"Lenin is in Helsinki."
Here's my big dilemma at the moment: canyons or cacti? From Los Angeles do I take I-15 through Las Vegas and into southern Utah, or do I go I-10 through southern Arizona? I don't particularly care about Vegas; I don't gamble and will be on my own at that point anyway. When I was small I saw a picture of the weightless stone curtains in Bryce Canyon which has fascinated me ever since, but at the same time my heart yearns for towering cactuses and painted deserts, the fulfillment of which was thwarted by the thin air and drab dirt in New Mexico when I visited last winter. Utah would be the long way, if long was the way I wanted to go. Then there's also the question of which route I'd rather continue on to Albuquerque: Las Cruces or Taos? El Mariachi vs. uh, The Searchers with beads and patchouli? How should I get to Austin? Through Amarillo and Fort Worth or El Paso and lots of empty yellow space?