Ignore for a minute the fact that the trailer seems to GIVE AWAY THE MOVIE (unless it's a red herring...) -- I am excited about it. I loved Gone Baby Gone, I think Ben Affleck finally found his calling, and I am happy for him.
My favorite part is where they don't mention that he directed it. Like he (or the studio, or someone) is keenly aware of how little street cred he has these days as an artist. It makes me like him more and reminds me of this AV Club interview with Mindy Kaling where she talks about his shitty yet unpretentious taste in music.
I also like this (totally pretensious) song a lot.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
sail
Because she loves me, and she reads my blog, wherein I expressed my summer desperation to be on a sailboat (and in the presence of the ever-sexy knots) my dear friend Molly took me on her sailboat this weekend!
Well, it isn't her sailboat, per se. But it belongs to her museum. Of which, I like to imagine, she is the queen of the art. The boat art.
It was fairly amazing. We sailed around Manhattan. Or a couple of sides of it, at least. In the EastHudsonPotomacMississipi River. Thing. (Okay, you got me, I am not really sure. I am very bad at NYC geography, even though I'm an expert at putting on my angry city face and appearing to be a local.)
Molly and I didn't bring any wine on board, though other people did, and next time --there will be a next time!-- we surely will. The wind was strong and the boat was a bit rocky, which was a teensy rough for my precious little tum tum, but my wooziness subsided eventually. Thanks, every once in a while, to a gorgeously cool spray from ther river (I choose not to think about the cleanliness of the water with which we were being sprayed, and chose instead to believe that it was pure ocean cerulean.)
The boat is manned by volunteers and I was especially intrigued by the the two youngest people, who spent a good amount of time chatting at the front of the boat, directly in front of where Molly and I seated ourselves. He was thin and blonde, not quite a full-fledged man, but capable in his sailing duties (that's him, silhouetted, above). She had curly pigtailed braids, glasses, and wore demin shorts with small embroidered flowers on them. (Of course, I took a picture of those, too, but I draw the line at posting pictures of girls bums.) She was one of those chicks who posesses a confidence level beyond her outward appearance -- a quality I greatly envy, as I can never shake off my own belief of how strangely different I am from most other people in order to come up with a way to engage. There really was an energy of connection between the two of them standing there in the sunset. Though, he eventually left her alone at the front of the boat, suddenly aware, it seemed of her glasses and tiny embroidered flowers.
Well, it isn't her sailboat, per se. But it belongs to her museum. Of which, I like to imagine, she is the queen of the art. The boat art.
It was fairly amazing. We sailed around Manhattan. Or a couple of sides of it, at least. In the EastHudsonPotomacMississipi River. Thing. (Okay, you got me, I am not really sure. I am very bad at NYC geography, even though I'm an expert at putting on my angry city face and appearing to be a local.)
Molly and I didn't bring any wine on board, though other people did, and next time --there will be a next time!-- we surely will. The wind was strong and the boat was a bit rocky, which was a teensy rough for my precious little tum tum, but my wooziness subsided eventually. Thanks, every once in a while, to a gorgeously cool spray from ther river (I choose not to think about the cleanliness of the water with which we were being sprayed, and chose instead to believe that it was pure ocean cerulean.)
The boat is manned by volunteers and I was especially intrigued by the the two youngest people, who spent a good amount of time chatting at the front of the boat, directly in front of where Molly and I seated ourselves. He was thin and blonde, not quite a full-fledged man, but capable in his sailing duties (that's him, silhouetted, above). She had curly pigtailed braids, glasses, and wore demin shorts with small embroidered flowers on them. (Of course, I took a picture of those, too, but I draw the line at posting pictures of girls bums.) She was one of those chicks who posesses a confidence level beyond her outward appearance -- a quality I greatly envy, as I can never shake off my own belief of how strangely different I am from most other people in order to come up with a way to engage. There really was an energy of connection between the two of them standing there in the sunset. Though, he eventually left her alone at the front of the boat, suddenly aware, it seemed of her glasses and tiny embroidered flowers.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Captain Hook feels badly.
Do I dare admit that I learned how not to use adverbs last night?
No big deal. I only have a Bachelor's degree in English from a fancy (and expensive) liberal arts school. They don't teach sentence diagraming at Middlebury, it turns out.
I was watching The Bachelorette (I know) eating pizza (second night in a row?) and chatting with my friend, Leslie. (If you hadn't guessed yet, this post is not about how beautiful, interesting or attuned my big city life is.) It became clear that I was having trouble correctly attaching and detaching the "ly" from the ends of my sentences.
She imparted to me this piece of Captain Hook wisdom first taught to her by the incomparable Dr. Elizabeth Ballard of Norman High School.
And, finally, for the first time in 26 years, it all made sense. Because, yes, we all know that Captain Hook is really bad at feeling.
Thanks, Doc. I can't thank you enough.
No big deal. I only have a Bachelor's degree in English from a fancy (and expensive) liberal arts school. They don't teach sentence diagraming at Middlebury, it turns out.
I was watching The Bachelorette (I know) eating pizza (second night in a row?) and chatting with my friend, Leslie. (If you hadn't guessed yet, this post is not about how beautiful, interesting or attuned my big city life is.) It became clear that I was having trouble correctly attaching and detaching the "ly" from the ends of my sentences.
She imparted to me this piece of Captain Hook wisdom first taught to her by the incomparable Dr. Elizabeth Ballard of Norman High School.
And, finally, for the first time in 26 years, it all made sense. Because, yes, we all know that Captain Hook is really bad at feeling.
Thanks, Doc. I can't thank you enough.
Monday, July 5, 2010
plans (an incomplete list)
During a dinner party for my birthday last month I was encouraged to share my goals, dreams, hopes for my 27th year. In retrospect I realized that I took the question far too literally. And far too seriously. I talked mostly about achievement and accomplishing. (Probably because that's where I feel the most defective.)
I would rather have focused on the small things. Small, daily, achievable goals.
This year I want to:
Remember to smile.
Dance more.
Buy second-hand.
Pumice, exfoliate and moisturize.
Initiate!
Mend the holes in my clothing the moment they appear.
Try more mixed drinks.
Read. A lot, lot more.
Remember to stretch.
Give a guy my phone number.
Direct some (a lot of) theatre.
Become a photographer.
Write.
Visit museums.
Learn more about Oklahoma.
Go on a blind date.
Talk.
Ride a bicycle.
Upholster, tile or re-finish something.
This is the cake I ate on my birthday when I was too serious.
I would rather have focused on the small things. Small, daily, achievable goals.
This year I want to:
Remember to smile.
Dance more.
Buy second-hand.
Pumice, exfoliate and moisturize.
Initiate!
Mend the holes in my clothing the moment they appear.
Try more mixed drinks.
Read. A lot, lot more.
Remember to stretch.
Give a guy my phone number.
Direct some (a lot of) theatre.
Become a photographer.
Write.
Visit museums.
Learn more about Oklahoma.
Go on a blind date.
Talk.
Ride a bicycle.
Upholster, tile or re-finish something.
This is the cake I ate on my birthday when I was too serious.
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