Tuesday, January 21, 2003

Look, defenestration's no joke.
That movie last night, The Hours (or, as I've lovingly redubbed it - The Horrors), involved some minor defenestration. Any movie that begins and ends with dreamy footage of Virginia Woolf's river suicide is going at your heartstrings with a scalpel. I realized about 20 minutes into The Hours/Horrors that I was in a chick flick and I have a strict No Chick Flick Policy. At any moment I expected Julia Roberts and her teeth to come sashaying into a well-styled scene. I did like the movie, one of our little watching throng wept uproariously at it.
At a late hour the phone rang. Anne Loomis Roberts.
Quite a surprise, pleasant present.
She divulged the call was prompted by her concurrent viewing of Vinny's Buffalo 66 so, of course, I had to re-regale her with my favorite VG stories.
And somehow we always seem to reinvestigate our private and shared horrors during our time at the private girlie school. Still wondering, after all these years, Just what in hell was that.
Evil anti-choice folks to descend upon the Middling City today.
Armed with camera for hateful doc I will be for non-violent shooting, contrary to their terroristic style.
Choice, always, love.

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