Also, bbblllllfffffffppppptttttt. Those shoes made me smile. Meta-coolness be damned.
How did "Greensleeves" get in my head? And more importantly, how can I get it back out?
Renzo Piano was on a Charlie Rose re-run last night, and for a good twenty minutes I was madly in love, the way I fall madly in love with little old men who wear hats when they take the bus to go get their groceries and the fifty-something Chinese woman who goes to the same bakery I do and just radiates happiness like it was a particle and wave.
February 1982: Mrs. G assigns her fifth grade class their choice of either The Iliad or The Oddyssey, and whatever supplemental reading in Bullfinch and Hamilton required to make sense of the goings-on therein.
February 2005: I walk by a pizza joint that has wild, woodsy figures painted on either side of the front entrance, and I think, "Heh -- Pan pizza. With goat cheese."
I just finished fixing the obviously busted sections of my book. Yay. Gonna sleep now.
. . .who kept shouting, "Hey, it's John Kerry!"
It's a shame the Super Bowl wasn't in October -- there could have been some subliminal advantage to be gained from Pointy Chin + New England = Manly Activity Winner.
Alright, I don't mean to turn this into a dream journal, but I had a doozy that's been bugging me for days, and I'll resort to just about anything -- even a humiliating public confession -- to purge the damn thing.
I'm on the subway, and Jennifer Aniston is sitting across from me, in intense and flirty conversation with the man next to her. I turn to see who's sitting next to me and find, yes, Brad Pitt, glaring at them.
Useful fact: I didn't even know they were together until they broke up, and only knew they broke up because I just happened to poke my nose out from under the fluffy blanket of Current Events Ignorance I pulled over my head in early November on the day that the unhappy couple were all over Google News. Also, my dreams very rarely contain celebrities in more than walk-on roles (see Vincent Gallo, below), I think because my unconscious mind is as disinterested in their personal comings and goings as my conscious mind is. I blame my friend G for bringing up "Brad and Jen" at a party and putting it in my head the night I had the dream. See what comes of watching those "Tonight Inside Hollywood Entertainment" shows, G?
So BP notices that I've turned his way, and makes eye contact. I say the only thing that comes to mind, which is, "Uh, sorry." He stares at me for a second, looks back over at JA, who is now making out with the anonymous man but manages give BP a "Ha!" sort of look. BP turns back to me, summons up a smoldering expression from one of his movies, and says something flirty. I say, "Oh, no way." He sighs, and asks me what I thought of Troy. I seriously consider yelling, "Hey, look over there!" and running away, but instead I say something nice about Fight Club. We have an interesting conversation about fake blood, and the various flavors it comes in. Apparently, he is partial to cherry.
Suddenly the subway bench seat becomes a chintz-covered sofa in the middle of a fussy living room. BP is still sitting next to me, but now he is glaring at Debbie Reynolds, who is yelling at me about my terrible taste in men. I realize that in this dream, Debbie Reynolds is my mother. I check my reflection in the glass door of a grandfather clock, just to make sure I haven't turned into Carrie Fisher (I haven't). BP makes declarations, but fails to convince DR of his sincerity. DR storms out, leaving me alone with BP on a chintz sofa.
Shortly after this I wake up.
The whole dream was exceptionally vivid, and I woke up remembering most of the details, which explains why I've been having trouble shaking it. I had just about forgotten it, and then "Where Is My Mind?" made the KEXP playlist this afternoon, and brought it all back. Aaarrrggghhhh.