No Day But Today
I'm surprisingly ready for RENT to hit the big screen. The angst-ridden arias may always jerk me back to Kym's candlelit, cat-smelling living room on New Year's Eve, a glittering forest of half-empty miniature bottles of Goldschlager obliterating the coffee table. Sure, I spent my teens in Cyberland, with Tonetta (looking disapproving), and Hope in her Taco Bell uniform, and Kym singing Light My Candle at the top of her talented lungs. Then I suppose I grew up and forgot the words. Until now.
I just watched the opening sequence to the second Charlie's Angels flick, the scene where Cameron Diaz rides the mechanical bull in a remote Mongolian bar, and it occured to me that the frequent accusation that my older sister looks like Drew Barrymore is not completely unfounded. Maybe it's the pouty lips and downturned, puppy-dog eyes. I noticed something else after that. I don't care how much plastic surgery Demi Moore has undergone; it is not enough to make a good idea out of filming a slow-motion close-up of the woman running in a bikini.
I'm hanging out at home today. I was sick yesterday, chilled and aching, spine tingling and stomach churning. But yesterday was the day we had real work to do at the plant. So I stayed home today instead, even though TheraFlu and fourteen hours of sleep had me pretty well revived. I've watched television all day. Sometimes I guess you just have to. I've also spent most of the day instant messaging two of my favorite people and evicting the cats from my afghaned lap. I've been sick a lot more than usual this past year. It doesn't seem fair. I guess I don't eat good. Well I eat plenty, but it's not what you'd call nutritionally balanced. You see, I don't cook very often. It's just one of those activities that I find stressful, unless I have a tried-and-true recipe and a whole afternoon in someone else's familiar kitchen, because I have a paltry sixteen square inches of counter space, and that's just not enough. So I subsist on yogurt and peanut butter and boneless, skinless chicken breasts, unless someone else feeds me, which is nearly a daily occurence. Lucky me.
I had a dream the other night about flying an F-4 Phantom (without a doubt my favorite fighter jet, which in no way detracts from my adoration of the SR-71 Blackbird, a speedy spyplane that once flew from St. Louis to Cincinatti in just over 8 minutes). Of course the Phantom led my waking train of thought to Bill Hester, who actually flew one and, perched on a three-legged stool in a leather bomber jacket, entertained me long hours with stories of flights low over Asian jungles and South American coastlines (myself cross-legged on the floor behind the plywood cashwrap, spellbound). There I could go no further because I don't know where he is. I tried for some time to find him after he didn't show up for work one day, but I guess he wasn't kidding when he called the store on a busy afternoon and confessed, "the monster won." I don't have what you might call an addictive personality, so I can't fully comprehend alchoholism. But I sincerely hope that, wherever he is, easygoing, grinning Bill found a safe way out.
So the Angels were taking a beating from that Madison hag with her cheesy gold Desert Eagles, and I pretty much confirmed for myself the extremely superficial fact that I watch this film series solely for the makeup and clothes. You'll be glad to know that I've clicked over to tonight's installment of the fantastically Britsy Pride and Prejudice series on Biography, and you know what a Jane Austen junkie I am. It's the tense part where Lydia has eloped with Wickham, but it's the perfect excuse for noble Mr. Darcy to come to the rescue. I guess I'm an incurable romantic, but I thoroughly enjoy preachy books full of black and white characters and wholesome moral lessons. They make my own swirly-gray life look a little easier. And I love the elegance of the era in Austen's books: the modest girls with strong jaws and alabaster skin, the fine manners, the small ebony crosses, the music and acres of lace. They're showing previews of the new Pride and Prejudice starring Keira Knightley, and I would like to take this opportunity to air my strange opinion that every movie should incorporate a part for Judi Dench. She rocks.
I just watched the opening sequence to the second Charlie's Angels flick, the scene where Cameron Diaz rides the mechanical bull in a remote Mongolian bar, and it occured to me that the frequent accusation that my older sister looks like Drew Barrymore is not completely unfounded. Maybe it's the pouty lips and downturned, puppy-dog eyes. I noticed something else after that. I don't care how much plastic surgery Demi Moore has undergone; it is not enough to make a good idea out of filming a slow-motion close-up of the woman running in a bikini.
I'm hanging out at home today. I was sick yesterday, chilled and aching, spine tingling and stomach churning. But yesterday was the day we had real work to do at the plant. So I stayed home today instead, even though TheraFlu and fourteen hours of sleep had me pretty well revived. I've watched television all day. Sometimes I guess you just have to. I've also spent most of the day instant messaging two of my favorite people and evicting the cats from my afghaned lap. I've been sick a lot more than usual this past year. It doesn't seem fair. I guess I don't eat good. Well I eat plenty, but it's not what you'd call nutritionally balanced. You see, I don't cook very often. It's just one of those activities that I find stressful, unless I have a tried-and-true recipe and a whole afternoon in someone else's familiar kitchen, because I have a paltry sixteen square inches of counter space, and that's just not enough. So I subsist on yogurt and peanut butter and boneless, skinless chicken breasts, unless someone else feeds me, which is nearly a daily occurence. Lucky me.
I had a dream the other night about flying an F-4 Phantom (without a doubt my favorite fighter jet, which in no way detracts from my adoration of the SR-71 Blackbird, a speedy spyplane that once flew from St. Louis to Cincinatti in just over 8 minutes). Of course the Phantom led my waking train of thought to Bill Hester, who actually flew one and, perched on a three-legged stool in a leather bomber jacket, entertained me long hours with stories of flights low over Asian jungles and South American coastlines (myself cross-legged on the floor behind the plywood cashwrap, spellbound). There I could go no further because I don't know where he is. I tried for some time to find him after he didn't show up for work one day, but I guess he wasn't kidding when he called the store on a busy afternoon and confessed, "the monster won." I don't have what you might call an addictive personality, so I can't fully comprehend alchoholism. But I sincerely hope that, wherever he is, easygoing, grinning Bill found a safe way out.
So the Angels were taking a beating from that Madison hag with her cheesy gold Desert Eagles, and I pretty much confirmed for myself the extremely superficial fact that I watch this film series solely for the makeup and clothes. You'll be glad to know that I've clicked over to tonight's installment of the fantastically Britsy Pride and Prejudice series on Biography, and you know what a Jane Austen junkie I am. It's the tense part where Lydia has eloped with Wickham, but it's the perfect excuse for noble Mr. Darcy to come to the rescue. I guess I'm an incurable romantic, but I thoroughly enjoy preachy books full of black and white characters and wholesome moral lessons. They make my own swirly-gray life look a little easier. And I love the elegance of the era in Austen's books: the modest girls with strong jaws and alabaster skin, the fine manners, the small ebony crosses, the music and acres of lace. They're showing previews of the new Pride and Prejudice starring Keira Knightley, and I would like to take this opportunity to air my strange opinion that every movie should incorporate a part for Judi Dench. She rocks.
posted by A at
7:54 PM
5 Comments:
Hey A, you do know that the only B model Blackbird is on display not far from you over at the museum in Ogden don't you?
Oh, yeah. I'd like to say I'm a regular at the Hill Air Force Base Museum but alas, Utah drivers irritate me.
I used to pass under one (not a B, but still, a sled!) every morning at the museum in San Diego. She was a stunning thing, streamlined and graceful, and I miss her terribly.
I have to say I am impressed that a lady of your calibre is somewhat a plane enthusiast.
The F4 is a wonderful machine and the SR71 I have to say IS my favourite plane.
I love how when they were developing it they had it sitting on the runway with the radar pointing at it.
It didn't show up on the radar and so they thought the plane wasn't on the runway. That was before a bird landed on it and lit it up like a christmas tree.
I love stuff like that. It's a shame that planes like this are no longer in production. Given a choice between the F117a, B2, or the SR71 I'll go SR71 any day.
You can't beat old school really. There's something so crap about modern planes. Much like modern cars. There's no soul to them.
Exactly. I had lunch once with Brian Shul, sled pilot extraordinaire. That plane was the focus of his life, and I think he will spend his last moment thinking about the years when he flew her.
And just where have you been?
Ummm. Errr. Well I'm not going to lie to you dear.
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