the squid and the whale
Feb. 20th, 2006 12:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cthulhiathis afternoon, with ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
crs and hahathor. (alas no pheromone. I was hoping it was because she was busy uploading photos of her homemade vinyl outfit, or at least the AMAZING skirt. no such luck. pressure her.)
The Squid and the Whale left me unimpressed. Sort of annoying and pretentious, just like much of college! I feel horribly guilty that I don't madly adore everything by (the likes of) Wes Anderson, and have failed to do so ever since I didn't love Rushmore. It seems so like my sort of thing too. But, there you have it. Shrug.
The deliberate gross-ness (bodily fluid-wise) is just so not my kink. Not outside of porn, anyway. With this particular writer, it connects uncomfortably with ancient, and invariably "hyperbolized a la hothouse hothead undergrads" hearsay.
My underachivement now feels more strongly in the category of networking than ofraw polished, developed talent. Likely an insignificant difference, all told.
This has been a disappointing media day overall. I'm not happy with Nick of Time either. OK story, too matter-of-fact delivery. Good narrative prose is a form of poetry, or something. Maybe I just got up on the nonplussed side of the bed today.
Well, no.
I still find just the mere thought of Snakes on a Plane to be thoroughly uplifting. Then again, that was after hours of media-wanking withcrs.
He, too, thinks it's silly that James Spader still bugs me simply for being cast as the dude who beats up Duckie in Pretty in Pink. In a rare moment of quelling my inner 80s era teenage outcast, I can even concede that his trademark creepy/sexyskank skanque was already evident back then.
In non-media thoughts, my old apartment had another open house. (no one mentioned the first open house to me, until the day after they went to it. grrrr.) $479K. For the floor. Cookie cutter gutted "to be airy" although it lost real and perceived square footage in the process, the ubiquitous light cherrywood, brushed steel kitchens that have come to define soulessness after too many open houses.
The exact same view I had so many days and nights, but from someplace blank, erased. Spiritually empty, and full of homeless ghosts.
crs and hahathor. (alas no pheromone. I was hoping it was because she was busy uploading photos of her homemade vinyl outfit, or at least the AMAZING skirt. no such luck. pressure her.) The Squid and the Whale left me unimpressed. Sort of annoying and pretentious, just like much of college! I feel horribly guilty that I don't madly adore everything by (the likes of) Wes Anderson, and have failed to do so ever since I didn't love Rushmore. It seems so like my sort of thing too. But, there you have it. Shrug.
The deliberate gross-ness (bodily fluid-wise) is just so not my kink. Not outside of porn, anyway. With this particular writer, it connects uncomfortably with ancient, and invariably "hyperbolized a la hothouse hothead undergrads" hearsay.
My underachivement now feels more strongly in the category of networking than of
This has been a disappointing media day overall. I'm not happy with Nick of Time either. OK story, too matter-of-fact delivery. Good narrative prose is a form of poetry, or something. Maybe I just got up on the nonplussed side of the bed today.
Well, no.
I still find just the mere thought of Snakes on a Plane to be thoroughly uplifting. Then again, that was after hours of media-wanking with
crs. He, too, thinks it's silly that James Spader still bugs me simply for being cast as the dude who beats up Duckie in Pretty in Pink. In a rare moment of quelling my inner 80s era teenage outcast, I can even concede that his trademark creepy/sexy
In non-media thoughts, my old apartment had another open house. (no one mentioned the first open house to me, until the day after they went to it. grrrr.) $479K. For the floor. Cookie cutter gutted "to be airy" although it lost real and perceived square footage in the process, the ubiquitous light cherrywood, brushed steel kitchens that have come to define soulessness after too many open houses.
The exact same view I had so many days and nights, but from someplace blank, erased. Spiritually empty, and full of homeless ghosts.
