I can’t believe my media director has no idea what a Blog is. The end is nigh.
Nickelodeon TV Land Awards: “I’m all for vintage cars, vintage wine, and hot girls in vintage jeans – sometimes, the older something is, the better. But an awards show for vintage television stars, happening in the here and now? Where do I sign up? Don’t get me wrong; the issue of the overabundance of award shows in Hollywood could fill an entire column . . .
My first freelance article for UGO.com. I also did an interview with some of the Survivor cast, but it got shaved off. Maybe they’ll run it as a separate article. The tone is not exactly an accurate reflection of who I am; I’d say it’s from my inner adolescent geek . I can’t tell if it’s terrifically unfunny or not.
Another Sunday spent doing just about zero. A beautiful day, of course, sunny and warm. I managed to drag myself off of the sofa and away from the television long enough to take a walk to the video store to return movies and to the pharmacy to buy some soap. Did no writing, no art, no cleaning. Did manage to complete two months worth of expense reports, however. Ate some popcorn and drank a few Vanilla Cokes. This is starting to read like the ramblings of a depressive. Holly Golightly called me from New York to tell me that J’s restaurant in Manhattan has opened. They spelled his name wrong in the Post, but they did mention that he looks just like Tom Cruise.
I’m watching a documentary on the Berlin Wall. I have a strange interest in it, actually. We lived in West Germany when I was a child, and we once took a trip to Berlin, where my father bought a souvenir book about escapees. I used to read it with endless fascination, reading about tunnel escapes, car escapes, high wire escapes, airplane escapes. It was a Cold War adventure novel, of sorts. I think at the time I was hoping to become a spy. I can still remember the glossy European paper, the black and white photos – especially that people’s portraits always had those anonymizing black boxes over their eyes to mask their identities, and, I supposed at the time and still do, to protect the families that they left behind.
Last night I dreamt of a bombing. I was in a non-descript train travelling to a non-descript workplace when at the other end of the train car there was an explosion. I couldn’t see bodies, I couldn’t see death, all I could see is smoke and twisted metal where the side of the train was blown out. Terrorism has seeped deep into my consciousness; how will we look back on ourselves in centuries to come.
I was watching Winged Migration last night. There is a scene of Canada geese flying down the East River past lower Manhattan, the twin towers of the World Trade Center in the shot. They still have the power to bleed in from the background and inform any scene in which they appear.
Today I’m going hiking. I must also commit to the color that I want to paint the shelves that I put up above the windows. I’m thinking blue. Also need to get the curtains made by a tailor. Lots to do.
My brother gave up alcohol for Lent. I gave up alcohol for clairty; I’m waking up at 6am even on the weekends. There are so many more hours in the day. Clarity is sometimes frightening. No, I’m not an alcoholic, but thanks for asking.