This will really shock you, but it’s been years and years since I’ve had the aesthetic real estate to consider films as art.

Here is what I do instead of considering film as art:

• wonder when I’ll finally get the radiator painted in the upstairs bathroom
• clean litter boxes all over the fucking house
• look for a USB stick with something vital on it
• run upstairs and unplug the router and plug it in again
• stick a kitten inside my shirt, eat real fast, and when it sticks its head out, go, “AAAAAAAA! Alien!” and flail around
• in fact, that’s about the closest i come to thinking about film
• my family’s pretty tired of that joke, too
• dishes
• sometimes I cook, mostly on weekends
• yardwork
• climb into my car thru the passenger door because some dork parked me in on the other side
• put gas in one of our cars
• wonder what I could do to get along better with my wife
• wonder if I’m spending enough quality time with the girls
• think about wasp nests
• wonder whether I should turn the yard into a vegetable garden, or just plant new grass. I suppose it depends on what the Dow does over the winter.
• look up at the sky
• practice cello
• have a dream about a punk band composed of reformed skinheads, the drummer of which sits behind half an oil drum (as shield against objects thrown at them), a guitarist of which wears a derby hat and says, “look, I’m a Britney” that then morphs into a dream about decapitated children wearing 19th-century suits and dresses, with horrific vermin (gigantic insects etc) swarming out of their clothes
• wake up and feed all the cats