February 19, 2011: It's one of those ambivalent Blah-ugh! moments, wherein I don't know what to write about first -- should I bash movies, celebrities, bad drivers, my children ... The options seem endless, and therefore the impetus to focus on any one is that much more precarious.
Meanwhile, it's terrifically windy out, and cold. My moonlight beach walk was hastily aborted not an hour ago, in part because there was no full moon that I could see -- (not to say it wasn't there, but I live in a very exclusive town and you can't take anything for granted ... and I'm not even sure what that means, but there's got to be a joke in there somewhere!) -- but the weather, the whipping ice wind and such, sent me running back to my car before I could find the meditative solice I so sorely craved on this early Saturday evening.
Now I'm back at the soul-sucking blue screen, waxing clever (or at least waxing). My daughter's downstairs yelling like a little girl, and my wife is playing these strange happy folk songs on her computer radio, and somehow, from up here, they sound like some weird means of psychological torture -- bouncy songs about "freedom" and "old hats," they creep under my skin like the cold humidity of thawing February.
Weather is, by the way, a great topic to write about, and I keep meaning to address a number of important related items. I happen to be someone -- it often seems like the only someone -- who loves winter. My soul thrives in the solitude it presents, and I relish snow and nighttime fires, and reading Dickens (even though that always sounds dirty to me). But now's not the time for that; too many other things wrestling for my attention.
That brings me to the George Clooney movie I watched half of last night -- "The American." I was kind of enjoying it, though it seemed a bit heavy handed, until Clooney had to bear his naked butt and ruin everything. After that I felt like I was watching some kind of bonus softcore pornography footage you get for joining the George Clooney fan club, and I was riddled with discomfort and fear ... then later, George Clooney fantasies ...
Anyway, the point is, when are people going to stop telling me I look like George Clooney, and start telling him that he looks like me? And when is the thaw going to be complete, with its promises of spring and clover and drunken Irish. And when the Dickens is my wife going to stop blasting those weird moribund songs and put my Astrud Gilberto record back on?