I ride my bicycle around New York a lot. It is often faster than any other form of transportation and always more fun, plus it makes me feel a lot better about the fact that I don’t get any exercise, primarily because it’s, you know, exercise.
On Monday, I went to see Paprika, which was simultaneously excellent and bizarre beyond explanation. I rode my bike to the theater, which is stupid for several reasons. To start with, it was 85° (Fahrenheit, just in case it needed to be clarified) that day. I rode into Manhattan at midday, and I had to leave my bike chained up outside for a few hours. Nevertheless, I persevered. And my bike didn’t get stolen.
As we can all easily imagine, helping your boss to write his resignation letter is a bit depressing. The even better part is a couple days later, when the big boss receives the letter and calls you to tell you that you need to start looking for a new job.
Needless to say, this puts a further damper on my plans of, you know, enjoying my summer.
It could be worse. I could have scurvy.
I was in the middle of writing while listening to my iTunes on random. Of a moment, I realized that I had stumbled onto the overworld music from the original Legend of Zelda.
So, I am a huge geek. As if there were any debate.
Over the winter after I first moved out of my parents’ house, the apartment in which I lived had minimal heat and even more minimal insulation. On the coldest nights, my body would warm my spot on the bed and I’d fall asleep. If I moved from that spot, the chill would awaken me immediately.
During the heat wave of the past few days, I slept with my fan pointing directly at my chest, doing everything it could to keep my core temperature cool. If I moved out of the fan’s path during the night, I was immediately awakened by the heat.
The moral of this story? Climate control is good for your sleeping habits.
Last night: I’m so bad at Halo that I can’t even win in my own dream… and I still have fun.
Also last night: Somebody set a cigarette on my phone, causing a melt-burn on the screen. I bitched at Tony for it. He told me that it was fucked up anyway and I shouldn’t drop it so much. “But Tony, it’s a burn,” I said. “From a cigarette,” we said in unison. Obviously, I gave him a dap.
Third (dreamless), Tony once told a couple of our co-workers to fight to the death and tie so they would put each other out of our misery. That was awesome.
After about eight years of citing American History X as my favorite movie without any serious consideration that anything else might even compete, I’ve come to a realization: it’s been supplanted.
Midway through the (estimated… and I’m totally serious about the number) hundredth or so viewing of the usurper earlier tonight, I realized that it has done what I thought impossible: it’s come to mean more to me than American History X.
When Margot told Richie, “I think we’re just going to have to be secretly in love with each other and leave it at that,” through the tent flap, it hit me: The Royal Tenenbaums is my new favorite film.
This is a big fucking deal to me.
In the past two days, I’ve:
Been clipped by a bus on my bike. Nearly had a two hundred fifty pound video projector land on my head. Been a passenger in a minor car accident. Been clipped by a cab crossing two lanes of traffic to make an illegal turn. Had a car door opened into me, flipping me over my handlebars and ruining my front wheel.
Who exactly wants me dead? That someone can die.
I woke up facing the windows, enjoying what little time I have to use my entire home as sanctuary. Outside, the bright light night was subdued by the ominous cloudcover, the same that had let it out on me and my eight million neighbors just a few hours earlier.
In a past life, I was part of the French New Wave. I did it all: wrote for Cahiers du cinéma, worked out ideas with Truffaut on The 400 Blows and Godard on Breathless. I even introduced Jean-Pierre Melville to Japanese culture, which inspired him to make Le Samourai. I knew Brigitte Bardot and reveled in the arts of the jump cut and mise en scène. I’ve always wanted to be an auteur.
And in a past life, you were…?
At a stoplight, I looked over. The minivan cab next to me had two passengers occupying a single seat behind the driver.
The girl straddled her boy. She kissed away his look of surprise and glee fiercely. She started to glide back and forth across his lap, gently but firmly.
He’s going to get some when he gets home, I thought.
She didn’t want to wait.