Random neuron firing, lame philosophy, literary pontificating, movies, sex, clothes & other femme stuff

Saturday, January 03, 2004

The future's on demand

Dropped kids at ex's last night after going to see latest Tim Burton flick Big Fish, which made us all cry. Well, not Max so much. But he did like it. And we three others were basically weeping. Adore adore adore Tim Burton & Danny Elfman. & Ewan (whom Max calls "Ian") McGregor. & Went to Starbucks after to pee (and order various decaf stuff for the privilege) and the barista looked so sympathetically into my eyes, which felt very red and were when I checked them in the bathroom. In some ways that I'm too drunk and tired to even think of enumerating right now it's the most literarytheoretical of Burton's films (that I've seen, that is). That's a good thing, in my book. I guess what I mean is it makes you think deeply and wonderfully about the relation between narration and identity. Narration as identity. Hi, Jerry Bruner!
L: (takes off socks, smells them) Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!
M: (typing, reaches over, is handed one, smells it) Hey . . . .
L: Yeah this is some serious shit. (grabs socks, throws them into laundry pile)
M: You could make SO much money off the Internet from these!!!

So when I dropped the kids off ex & new partner were watching Angels in America. Friday night. How possible? Ex explains: you can watch HBO on demand. You're fucking kidding. On demand?

Hours and hours and hours and hours of Sex and the City later. Berger and Carrie have just broken up. Dragola. We missed the whole last season, and now we're practically up to date. It's the greatest show.

We are so totally going to have sex tonight.

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