movin’ on up (mooovin’ on up)

Hey friends. In the struggle for creative control, I’ve moved my blog over to www.sothereisthat.com. Though WordPress and I still remain friends. I’m about to post my Lars and the Real Girl response there, which turned out to be less about Lars and the Real Girl than I previously intended.

bang, bang.

In actuality, it was only one bang. But “Bang” was never a song by Sonny & Cher and covered by Nancy Sinatra…geezy-peezy I love that song. And Kill Bill Volume 2 with which it will ever be associated. Back to the action.  It was not my baby who shot me down, nor was it I who was shot down, but it could’ve been! (Not really. We’re asking Truth to scooch down a bit so that Drama can join us on the couch.)

I arrive at my DOWNTOWN LOFT last night around 11:15 PM. Sarah, Roommate Temporalis, was chilaxin’ on the couch, watching some Atonement. She asks the perfectly legitimate and not at all paranoid question of, “When do the lights in the parking lot go off? Because I feel like they already are and that doesn’t make sense.” She’s right. It doesn’t make sense. Enter Danger.

BANG.

Waco is not a buzzing metropolis. The central Texas pace makes it quite easy to forget that Waco is still crazy dangerous. There’s a hopping drug trade and a substantial amount of the population lives below the poverty/desperation line. So when a girl hears a gunshot outside the window of her DOWNTOWN LOFT, concern may furrow itself across her brow.

Me: “Uh. That was a gunshot.”
Sarah: “Yeah.”
Me: “Uhhh. It was pretty close, huh?”
Sarah: “Yeah.”

We did the only rational thing: we ignored it. We did not go to the windows. We did not freak out. Sarah continued to moon over James McAvoy and his sepsis while I tried to wash a shift’s worth of steamed milk off my shoes. Then we heard the sirens. And saw the pretty lights. And realized they were gathering our parking lot.

According to my count (punctuated by a lot of “Ooh! Ooh! There’s another one!”’s) there were no fewer than eight cop cars, ten cops, 30 yards of yellow tape, two witnesses, and four frantically sweeping flashlights. Shortly after arriving, one cop ran back to his car and took off after someone/something.  Since I’m a cat owner, sudden movement and rabid intensity after no perceivable threat doesn’t faze me, but I’m sure he was riding to the danger zone.

At this point Sarah and I are huddled at my bedroom window, trying to peek without really peeking.  We don’t know what happened. We don’t know if anyone was hurt. We don’t know much. But we do know this: our mother’s never need to know that we live at ground zero. And life in a DOWNTOWN LOFT is substantially more exciting.

 

victory. for someone else but that i still appreciate.

http://www.televisionaryblog.com/2008/05/where-pilots-go-to-die-foxs-spaced.html

Someone has seen and reviled the Spaced US remake.  Huzzah! I know at least 8* people who are vividly creative enough to write a solid pilot/movie/book, and yet our sad little culture rather just recycle unrecyclable ideas. Poorly. At least this one was nipped in the bud.

 

*This seems a believable number, but I didn’t really sit down and count. Close enough.

exclamation point.

“Ooh, I have a blog! Ooh, I’ma gonna update all the time! Blaaah.”

But really, I am. This past week has been one of extenuating circumstances.

If you’ve seen me in the past week, you’ve heard me bitch about this already. But I know you want a recap. I stayed up all night last Sunday to finish the thesis; I turned it in at 5 AM and immediately started packing. I had to be out of my apartment around  noon Monday and it hadn’t occurred to me, not even once, that I should put my metric ton of worldly belongings into boxes first.  My parents and uncle came to help around 8:30, by which time my bathroom and half my closet was packed. It was a long day.

My mom and dad have helped me move more times than anyone is biologically obligated.  Since May 2005, I’ve moved seven times; my long-suffering parents have moved me at least four of those.  Moving always seems to happen in the spring, which is never a good time for me.  They usually walk in to find me huddled in a corner, crying into my cat, amid mountains of dirty laundry and booze that they wish I didn’t drink. To make the whole job more fun, I’ve been a literature student for the past 6 or 7 years, so I have an ever-expanding collection of books to heave along. The parents complain, they sigh, but they always help me move.  Now I’m just left in a new apartment with boxes labeled in my mom’s handwriting, “BOOKS,” “BOOKS – HEAVY,” and “MORE BOOKS!”. It’s the exclamation point that makes me laugh.  My mom’s little Sharpie reminder that I am crazy and only technically hers.

Despite my boxes and limited access to The Internets (I shake my fists at you, HP), I am pleased to be living in a DOWNTOWN LOFT. My DOWNTOWN LOFT is in a building built in 1914 ( or something) and has exposed pipes and brick and an elevator. It is also in downtown Waco. So. There’s that. It’s the only time in my life I’ll be able to live in a DOWNTOWN LOFT, so I try not to dwell on the technicalities.

The best and worst part about downtown Waco is that it is downtown Waco. It’s quaint and old and precious. Also, it is filled with the most unique homeless population in Texas, second only to Austin.  Earlier this week I walked Mary Z (future roomie) downstairs to her car. Up comes one of Waco’s premier transients, toothlessly laughing.  He looks at me and says, “Gimme sompin’ to eat!” Crazy laugh, crazy laugh. I admire his forwardness, but unless he wanted to gnaw on my keys, he was out of luck.  This story is better when I can do his voice, trust me. 

I’m getting tired of typing in the student union building. So we’ll continue this another time. In upcoming news, I’ll probably be moving the blog to my own space this upcoming week. Keep yer ear to the ground. Also, I don’t intend to do many “sooooo. this is what I did today” posts, but I felt the need to explain my absence. I also have some Netflix responses due. Soon, loves.

Too lazy to articulate actual post. Relying on images.

 

I’m really glad that cats and racoons aren’t in cahoots. We’d be at their tiny, sly, irritating mercy.  And that’s coming from someone who enjoys both cats and racoons.

I read this and in that moment decided I would and could finish my thesis.

marriedtothesea.com

Self-enlightenment, courtesy of the google

I’m on my way to some happy Friday times at the Dancing Bear, but I had to share this delicious and foamy tidbit first. So, my brew of choice lately has been Dogfish Head’s 90 minute IPA. As a fan is want to do, I googled my favorite Delwarians who had this to say about their mission: “Off-centered ales for off-centered people…that’s what we do here at Dogfish Head!” (I’ll forgive them the exclamation mark).  Of course you do, DFH. Even my choice of fine ales is starting to make sense to me.

 

 

 

Adventures in Netflixing

Lars and the Real Girl came in yesterday. I’m Not There just shipped. Huzzahs all around. I plan to post some sort of response to every Netflix title I receive, so this should make for a helpful start.

Popular Tripe, Sloppy Methods, and Questionable Conclusions

I have long been held in the throes of a catastrophic delusion: I think I am a mult-tasker. I’m not. I’m diagnosed ADD and have the same attention span/interests as my cat. However, whenever I buckle down to take on a task — folding laundry, reading articles, writing this so-called “thesis” — I always think I’ll just pop in a movie for a little background noise.

This never works.

However, through extensive research, I have come up with the absolute best movie to not be busy to. Are you ready? Ghostbusters.

 

 

Yes. Ivan Reitman’s 1984’s classic, Ghostbusters is hands down the best film to have playing whilst wallowing in unproductivity.  It meets all my requirements for an accomplishment-free time filler. It’s played on TNT/TBS/FX/Fox Movie Network ad nauseum, so I’m able to convince myself I won’t really watch it. Just like I don’t really watch it every Saturday when it comes on (hint: I’m lying. I will always stop whatever I’m doing to watch Ghostbusters).  

Second, it’s the sort of movie that, in theory, will not offer anything substantial enough to tug at my attentions. It’s fluffy; it’s harmless; it’s a loosely bound collection of jokes based on Dan Akroyd and Harold Ramis’ ability to play nerdy, Rick Moranis’ ability to play awkward, Annie Pott’s ability to talk nasally, and Bill Murray’s ability to be Bill Murray. That’s absolutely true. Guess what I love? ALL OF THOSE THINGS. I can’t look away from Bill Murray being Bill Murray ever. Ever. And I don’t want to be the sort of person who could. As an added bonus, Akroyd, Ramis, and Murray play disillusioned academics alienated and rejected by the very institution which they’ve built their life around. It’s the scariest part of the movie.

The final straw on the camel of diligence’s back is this: five years later, they made another one. Ghostbuster’s II is exactly like Ghostbusters.  Yes, they relied on the trusty crutch of a baby to highten the drama, but ultimately it’s more of the same. More of the beautiful same.  It’s an affinity Ghostbusters shares with my second choice for background/foreground noise, Alien and Aliens. Also, they share Sigourney Weaver. And in their second installments each introduces and subsequently endangers a child. And they both showcase dripping goo. Turns out they may have more in common than I first thought. 

Most importantly, I walk away from my hours languishing on my couch, balancing my over-heating laptop on my knee, as please as if I’d been productive. Thanks to Mr. Reitman, I never feel badly about not accomplishing much. Because, I mean, I just finished Ghostbusters. What do I have to be unhappy about?

Playlist: La Crème

I’ve had it in my mind to compile an iTunes playlist with my essentials: the songs that I don’t just enjoy or appreciate, but that have played a salient role in my personal, aesthetic, or emotional development. I don’t know that it will ever be something that I finish, but it’s been a worthwhile exercise so far. Thiese aren’t really the tracks I put out too early in a mix tape relationship: those are a different beast altogether. These are the songs that I turn to when I don’t have to be cool. Or can’t be cool. So either way that’s a good chunk of time.  Here’s the dame so far, in all her no particular order twenty track glory:

1. Cosmic Dancer – T.Rex
2. Needle in the Hay – Elliot Smith
3. Chelsea Hotel #2 – Leonard Cohen
4. I Don’t Blame You – Cat Power
5. The Guns of Brixton – The Clash
6. Helplessly Hoping – CSN&Y
7. Some Things Last a Long Time – Daniel Johnston
8. Wolf Like Me – TV on the Radio
9. I’ve Been Thinking – Handsome Boy Modeling School
10. Flesh – David Gray
11. If She Wants Me – Belle & Sebastian
12. Buckets of Rain – Bob Dylan
13. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over – Jeff Buckley
14. Holland, 1945 – Neutral Milk Hotel
15. Where Is My Mind? – The Pixies
16. The Needle and the Damage Done – Neil Young
17. Somedays – Regina Spektor
18. Natural Disaster (Live) – Loudon Wainwright III
19. Track 4 [Untitled] – Sigor Ros
20. Street Hassel – Lou Reed