So the distillation of Secret Window, the Johnny Depp wonder, is this:
Cheating = BAD.
He's nearly in every scene and for that it gets six stars in my Perfect book.
There, too, is Timothy Hutton with an unsightly zit resting on the side of his nose. Where was the makeup artist to squeeze that shit.
This morning I regaled my breakfast pals with the tossled look of Johnny's hair as he arose from his many movie naps. Short, blonde disaster.
After Depp Time Laura and I revisited The Rendezvous and it was pleasurable, back to its old self with the dinge-riddled booths and smattering of vintage artwork and signage.
At one point, after several tall scotches and sodas, did an extemperaneous dance to the hell that was the jukebox run of songs from the oeuvre of Frank Sinatra. With a paper napkin stuffed into each cuff I twirled and plieed and whirled through the barroom.
Today I shot a Bar Mitzvah to fund my high life and there was one fourteen year old boy who kept giving me the eye and at first I thought Jeez, kid, what's up with you, what'm I blocking your way to the ice cream station. It, the glance, rehappened three more times and I realized Oh, this kid has crossed the boundary from the innocence to the practiced. At that age kids now, and any parent reading this stuff your ears, are doing It. And It hangs over some of the teened heads like the smoke from a cherry bomb.
Bought four new ones: Matthew Sweet's Japanese release, new Beth Orton, and two clerk recs - TV On the Radio and Zero7. So far, so good, so acceptable, so interestingly swingin'.
Onwards.
Sonic Love.