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May. 5th, 2008 02:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
goldenmeanWhen I see you, I see my own face. I want to save you from yourself. What could I do? What could I say? It's a downward spiral, a downward spiral...
Well, I had a perfectly good self-pitying, sullen journal entry bouncing around in my head, but this weekend seems to be pegging out on the suck-o-meter across the board for many people I know and care about already, so I think I'll just skip that. It's not like I ever would have written it anyway, because heaven knows I never actually say anything non-trivial here. Instead, I think I will briefly mention some things that don't suck. I'm keeping the song lyrics though. Just so you don't think I've gone and become an optimist on you. I know that would be distressing.
Iron Man is actually a pretty decent movie. Certainly good for a comic book movie, but that's akin to saying "It was the most enjoyable root canal I've ever had!" "Best breakup ever! I'd do it again and again!", and so on. I'm going to stop short of saying it was a good movie, because my criteria for a good movie involve not ever wishing I could force myself into a coma for a couple of minutes, but it was an enjoyable movie. I've decided I'm pretty much the worst possible person to watch comic book movies, because I remember just enough about being a comic book nerd to be pissed off at all of the continuity butchering, but in the intervening decades I've also become a giganticfilm everything snob and just abhorrent of action movies in general, unless there are subtitles, maybe...
You know what *is* a good movie? Walker. I love you Criterion Collection. I love you so.
There's a clockwork beetle sitting on my function key row. This produces a warm glowy feeling in the cogs and ratchets surrounding my aortic pump. Maybe I just need to be oiled though. And for your monthly dose of "Aren't you glad you don't live in my head?", I'll have you know that I now have a detailed mental image of a glisteningly well oiled steampunk version of myself singing "Happy birthday Mr. President" haltingly while venting steam and gamely attempting to twirl springs serving as nipple tassels.
Speaking of steampunk, one of my recently purchased books is Whitechapel Gods, which I imagine is going to be disappointing, but it's worth the purchase just for the cover
Instead of reading that, I've been catching up on my Vonnegut. Bluebeard. Deadeye Dick. And now God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater I've been harboring illusions that while I sleep, my books come to life, and in this fantasy world, God Bless You Mr. Rosewater, while patrolling the bookshelves comes across a copy of Atlas Shrugged lecturing a group of ignorant freshmen college texts on the virtues of being a selfish bastard, and there ensues a battle vaguely reminiscent of the fight between the Clark-Nova and Martinelli typewriters in the film version of Naked Lunch. This would of course require me to have a copy of Atlas Shrugged somewhere in the house, which I thankfully do not.
Oh, I also read some more Irvine Welsh (Filth in particular), just to reassure myself that I've still got a long way to go before I hit really serious misanthropy.
I'm listening to the new Nick Cave, and I'm pretty sure I just heard the lyric "She's filled herself with panda blood", which I'm choosing to count as a positive. Also purchased today, more backfilling my New Model Army catalogue, and the new PJ Harvey. It's possible that I pretended that during the course of the walk home, the PJ Harvey and Nick Cave CDs made out, had a brief relationship, and then an acrimonious breakup, and are now resentful of their adjacency when sorted by date added in my itunes collection. I can neither confirm nor deny this.
I find it amusing that in this journal entry, I have both anthropomorphized my books and music, and reduced myself to a mechanism, albeit a disturbingly erotic one. I can only think of the Big Lebowski line "He treats objects like women, man!" This is probably fresh in my mind because I spent a good chunk of Iron Man thinking "Obadaiah Stane is being very un-dude"
In other news, I'm older. I'm now 100000 years old as far as computers are concerned. It was a lousy birthday, but there's something satisfying about being a power of two. It's not outside of the realms of possibility that it's the last time it'll ever happen, so I've decided to try and make the most of it.
And now sleep.
We all want what we cannot have. We've driven so far, we can never get back. Sitting in the all night cafe in a curl of smoke, telling tales of the road
Well, I had a perfectly good self-pitying, sullen journal entry bouncing around in my head, but this weekend seems to be pegging out on the suck-o-meter across the board for many people I know and care about already, so I think I'll just skip that. It's not like I ever would have written it anyway, because heaven knows I never actually say anything non-trivial here. Instead, I think I will briefly mention some things that don't suck. I'm keeping the song lyrics though. Just so you don't think I've gone and become an optimist on you. I know that would be distressing.
Iron Man is actually a pretty decent movie. Certainly good for a comic book movie, but that's akin to saying "It was the most enjoyable root canal I've ever had!" "Best breakup ever! I'd do it again and again!", and so on. I'm going to stop short of saying it was a good movie, because my criteria for a good movie involve not ever wishing I could force myself into a coma for a couple of minutes, but it was an enjoyable movie. I've decided I'm pretty much the worst possible person to watch comic book movies, because I remember just enough about being a comic book nerd to be pissed off at all of the continuity butchering, but in the intervening decades I've also become a gigantic
You know what *is* a good movie? Walker. I love you Criterion Collection. I love you so.
There's a clockwork beetle sitting on my function key row. This produces a warm glowy feeling in the cogs and ratchets surrounding my aortic pump. Maybe I just need to be oiled though. And for your monthly dose of "Aren't you glad you don't live in my head?", I'll have you know that I now have a detailed mental image of a glisteningly well oiled steampunk version of myself singing "Happy birthday Mr. President" haltingly while venting steam and gamely attempting to twirl springs serving as nipple tassels.
Speaking of steampunk, one of my recently purchased books is Whitechapel Gods, which I imagine is going to be disappointing, but it's worth the purchase just for the cover
Instead of reading that, I've been catching up on my Vonnegut. Bluebeard. Deadeye Dick. And now God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater I've been harboring illusions that while I sleep, my books come to life, and in this fantasy world, God Bless You Mr. Rosewater, while patrolling the bookshelves comes across a copy of Atlas Shrugged lecturing a group of ignorant freshmen college texts on the virtues of being a selfish bastard, and there ensues a battle vaguely reminiscent of the fight between the Clark-Nova and Martinelli typewriters in the film version of Naked Lunch. This would of course require me to have a copy of Atlas Shrugged somewhere in the house, which I thankfully do not.
Oh, I also read some more Irvine Welsh (Filth in particular), just to reassure myself that I've still got a long way to go before I hit really serious misanthropy.
I'm listening to the new Nick Cave, and I'm pretty sure I just heard the lyric "She's filled herself with panda blood", which I'm choosing to count as a positive. Also purchased today, more backfilling my New Model Army catalogue, and the new PJ Harvey. It's possible that I pretended that during the course of the walk home, the PJ Harvey and Nick Cave CDs made out, had a brief relationship, and then an acrimonious breakup, and are now resentful of their adjacency when sorted by date added in my itunes collection. I can neither confirm nor deny this.
I find it amusing that in this journal entry, I have both anthropomorphized my books and music, and reduced myself to a mechanism, albeit a disturbingly erotic one. I can only think of the Big Lebowski line "He treats objects like women, man!" This is probably fresh in my mind because I spent a good chunk of Iron Man thinking "Obadaiah Stane is being very un-dude"
In other news, I'm older. I'm now 100000 years old as far as computers are concerned. It was a lousy birthday, but there's something satisfying about being a power of two. It's not outside of the realms of possibility that it's the last time it'll ever happen, so I've decided to try and make the most of it.
And now sleep.
We all want what we cannot have. We've driven so far, we can never get back. Sitting in the all night cafe in a curl of smoke, telling tales of the road
