Monday, November 15, 2004

Respect my Privacy!

In a strange turn of events, I found myself on the train this morning sitting next to a girl named Rosemary with whom I attended CCD every Saturday for the first 13 years of my life. It was bizarre to see her because track 2 on the Interpol album (Rooosemaryyyyy, heaven restores you to life) has made me think of her every single time I've been in my car for the past week. I think the last time she saw me was when we were confirmed, so she didn't recognize me. I didn't say anything. I don't think I could've come up with something to say that wasn't completely psychotic, anyway. "Hi Rosemary, um, we were never friends, but we learned about Jesus together for a long time, and, also, I THINK ABOUT YOU EVERY SINGLE DAY, how are you?"

I had kind of a rough weekend. I had a weird headache on Friday that, by the time I got home, had migrated from my head to my nose. It's hard to complain about having a noseache, because you sound like a jackass. Or a total hypochondriac. But seriously, I had a headache in my nose. I went to bed after watching Mystic River, which was excellent in that Sean Penn kind of way, and Mean Girls, which was excellent in that I-want-to-slap-the-shit-out-of-Lindsey-Lohan kind of way.

Total aside: I finally figured out it's my friend Linz singing that crap-ass "Respect My Privacy" song on Z-100 sixty-thousand times a day. She's the latest in a long line of artists breaking the covenant John Q. Public (I have been waiting for an excuse to use that phrase for a long time) has with his pop-stars. It goes like this: we buy their albums and merchandise and make them nauseatingly rich, and they sing songs about love (or lack thereof) and let us think that being rich and famous is really great, as to validate our daily struggle to attain richness (or greatness, but that's not as necessary). Self-referential songs about how difficult it is to be a rich starlet who can't go into a club and act like a whore without ending up on Entertainment Tonight are not part of the deal.

But back to the movie I was watching; I find Lindsay Lohan's knockers totally distracting. They're huge! She's built like Barbie! This took away from my enjoyment of the film as a whole.

On Saturday, I watched Dogville, which no one warned me was four and a half years long. I did enjoy it, though, because any film where Nicole Kidman is chained to a giant iron wheel by her neck is A-OK by me. Since, I've been thinking about whether Lars Von Trier is really as big a misogynist as I perceive him to be, and if I come up with any brilliant ideas I'll put them on here post-haste.

Public Service Announcement to Chloe Sevigny: Please, please do something different, just once. For your good, for our edification, for the sake of art.

I had kind of an emotional day on Sunday, for reasons that seemed kind of huge at the time, but I suppose in retrospect boil down to "I'm kind of lonely." Wrote some letters at the coffee-shop that I still need to mail, sat around in my house for a while, went out to return movies, hijacked post-bridal shower Kai and went to Barnes and Noble, where things got slightly better because I ran into Mike (who may or may not be the ex-boyfriend of someone I may or may not friends with) who I enjoy a lot, and who told me about a new coffee shop (NON-STARBUCKS! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, IT'S NOT CORPORATE COFFEE!), a new pool hall, and now has my number. It would be lovely if Kai and I have successfully expanded our social circle, although I think the best you can geometrically get with only two people is a social line segment.


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