far too much writing, far too many photos Thursday, January 10, 2002 Written yesterday, 9 Jan., but unposted until today due to Blogger publishing problems: I've been busy these last few hours cracking myself up. It's true -- some days I am easily the most hilarious person I come into contact with. (And I will not explain or justify that assessment. You'll either just have to take my word for it or piss off.) So it felt like the perfect day to see a film like Ghost World, a product the publicity calls 'una comedia ácida' -- a marketing phrase a touch too glib for my taste. (Isn't that a great word? Glib. GLIB. Glibglibglibglibglib. How did those four letters get fastened together in that order? And aren't they a dynamite example of a word that somehow sounds like what it's supposed to mean?) It's about a lot of things, really, Ghost World, alienation and, well, glibness being two of them. Or maybe the glibness is simply a caustic outgrowth of the alienation. Regardless, the film goes after a number of things. Painful at times. At times funny. I found myself laughing loudly quite a bit, then realized I was the only person in the theater doing so (not that there were more than five or six misguided souls there for the 3:55 Wednesday afternoon showing), which for some perverse reason made it all funnier. Not sure whether the story's end worked or not, but it was interesting and -- I grovel with apologies here for the use of this word -- honorable. Everyone else in the theater left during the credits, which meant they missed an outtake tacked on at the very end in which Steve Buscemi (still the reigning king of indie cinema) rewrites a bit of his nerdy character's history. That's the risk in bolting before a movie's actually finished -- you never know what you'll miss. For instance, a relative of Bob Balaban -- one of the supporting players in Ghost World and a face you've seen if you've done any serious moviegoing during the last 20 or 30 years -- is listed in the credits as something like the Second Assistant Assistant Director. Really. Also, the film features a bunch of interesting artwork by the daughter of R. Crumb, Sophie Crumb. Great soundtrack, by the way. The theater complex posted a lackey in our little viewing space at the film's end to try and ensure that everyone exited the door to the street instead of back into the theater (where some miscreants might attempt to sneak into other movies). I had to use the bog, so the guy had no choice but to let me back into the theater or I would have relieved myself on his shoes. After I'd accomplished my mission I passed through the lobby, where I picked up the handout re: the film. And here's the thing: the combination of everything -- the day, the film, the outtake, relieving my bladder, the people waiting in the lobby, the woman there who returned my smile, the gentle light of the softly falling Madrid evening -- left me in a great mood, and I emerged into the post-movie world smiling, where I took a leisurely walk back to my humble Chueca dive, smiling most of the time. It's interesting to note people's reactions when they pass someone who appears happy. Some seem curious, many take no notice, others begin to smile. Most folks walking on their own here do not seem to smile. In fact, back in the States, a Spaniard I know who spent one of his high school years as an exchange student near Columbus, Ohio heard a story -- maybe on NPR, but don't hold me to that -- re: Spaniards who had lived in the States. He told me that one of the Spaniards interviewed in the story mentioned that they felt under great pressure to appear happy, to smile, when in fact they didn't feel like smiling a lot of the time. Not that they were unhappy, they simply didn't want to have to smile. So there's a cultural difference at work there, and it may be that a putz like myself flouncing smilingly down a Madrid street stands out in that way. The other thing: I love watching people, and coming out of a film like that -- which spent a great deal of time observing how the inner workings of its characters showed themselves -- people-watching was the perfect thing to do. There were some low-hanging clouds in the western sky, brilliant with the last light of the day, and the people passing by seemed similarly radiant with the complexity of their inner worlds. It's good, this life. Really. Right. Enough of this. I must go be a student and study. Later. rws 1:07 AM [+] BLATHERINGS August 2001 September 2001 October 2001 November 2001 December 2001 January 2002 February 2002 March 2002 April 2002 May 2002 June 2002 July 2002 August 2002 September 2002 October 2002 November 2002 December 2002 January 2003 February 2003 March 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 June 2006 July 2006 August 2006 September 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 June 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009 March 2009 April 2009 June 2009 July 2009 .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . MORE FOCUSED BLATHERINGS Travels: London '01 Pamplona Italy '03 U.K. '03 Sevilla Casablanca Stoke-on-Trent Barcelona Québec/Ottawa Boston/Lisbon/Madrid Italy '04 Montréal La Sierra Events: Madrid -- arrival 9/11 Emergency Room I Holidays 2001 Holidays 2002 Holidays 2003 Holidays 2004 Holidays 2005 A neighbor's passing Madrid -- March 11 bombings   and aftermath Emergency Room II Israeli friend/Madrid Marathon Madrid -- Royal Wedding The DELE exam GONE, a novel: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 THE BASTARD CHILDREN OF JOE ROCCO, a novella: -- Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 3 BURBANK SHRUGGED, a screenplay: -- Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 3 -- Part 4 Short stories: Murphy's Wife Another Autumn La Queja de Una   Hermanastra Muy Conocida Autobiography -- Personal History -- Hormones On Parade -- Accidents, Random Mishaps,     Personal Problems .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . OTHER SOURCES OF WHOLESOME ENTERTAINMENT People/Weblogs: dooce foxvox fudge it fear not rebekka bookslut 802online idle words madhaiku wockerjabby grow-a-brain rebel market letting me be out and about kung fu grippe fanatical apathy baghdad burning wfuv's music blog kexp's music blog mimi smartypants between the miles just a hippie gypsy the impossible cool tomato can brushes vermont homestead sugar mountain farm Good Clean Fun: gizmodo futurismic postsecret dave barry human clock mcsweeney's spaceweather book-a-minute internet archive self-portrait day my cat hates you out of context quotes surrealist compliment   generator strindberg and helium Makin' Musical Whoopee: last fm stereo8 pandora soma fm .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . ABOUT RWS/CONTACT This page and all its contents copyright © 2001-2011 by runswithscissors unless otherwise noted. runswithscissors would like to thank everyone who's ever lived for everything they've ever done. 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