The radio this morning was all blah-blah-blah, some guy got to pick 24 movies to be shown somewhere, I had the impression Venice. Let’s say Venice. Which movies would you pick? I thought about it, and decided I’d have to pass.
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
- sometimes I cook, mostly on weekends
- 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