Vertical Horizon: Shackled

I am going to reblog so as to repair what was broken, and hopefully this stupid machine will recognize my commands.

As I sit here eating my whole wheat toast with whipped cream cheese (I'm going for the East German chic image, though if I were really trying, I suppose I would be eating it outdoors at a broken patio table, under an overcast sky, wearing muted earth tones and a scowl), something tells me I have a lot to say.

A report from the festival circuit: I never thought I would say this, but I am sufficiently movie-ied out. Actually I used Saturday as a respite from film and recouped for Sunday. Here's how it played (I may be repeating from an earlier blog, but I don't give a shit). Wednesday opened the fest with "The Right Stuff," which I thought I had seen, but apparently Philip Kaufman felt that his film about flight deserved to be long as fucking hell. It was good, and sometimes breathtaking, but I know I could have used an intermission... or something prescribed by my doctor. Plus the stupid Virginia Theater is insanely designed, causing the seats in the balcony to be virtually on top of each other allowing for literally no leg room. It was like I was on a small propeller plane flight to Kathmandu.

Collective Soul: Why Pt. 2 (halfway through)

Thursday, I skipped class and went to see "Stone Reader," a fantastic documentary by Mark Moskowitz about his love of reading, and his search for... things. It was my favorite film of the fest when I saw it, and remained such for the rest of the week.

Five For Fighting: Day by Day

Thursday eve we saw Neil Labute's "Your Friends and Neighbors" and were surprised to hear that LaBute lives "an hour" from Chicago in a suburb, which technically according to the SMSA's can be Kankakee. Kind of like David Foster Wallace living in Bloomington of all places. I assume that LaBute lives in an actual suburb and more towards civilization, ahem, the city. Sorry for all you non-city-ites (or natural ruralites), but living near a cornfield for this long has obviously gotten to me. After that we saw Bob Rafelson's "Blood and Wine" which was underwhelming. In fact, it really kinda sucked. Rog was way off.

Ani DiFranco: The Waiting Song

Friday had me going alone to "Medium Cool" which did not live up to the hype. My cousin Emily had trumpeted it for a couple weeks and expressed envy that I was going to see it on the silver screen, but I just didn't love it as much as I expected. But I do recommend it; I liked it. Robert Forster is incredible and Wexler's cinematography, especially in regards to the light reflection in the windshield of a car, is breathtaking at times. But something was missing. I don't know, but I think it was immediacy. They even ignored RFK's assassination though he played a prominent role in the film since it largely took place at the '68 Dem Convention and RFK died in CA after that state's primary, before the convention. Anyway, see it, but if you don't that's ok too. Friday night I saw "L.627" which is a French film and refers to a French public health code. It is about a narcotics unit of the police and was entertaining.

Eagles: New York Minute

"L.627" was a little frustrating though. The woman in front of me decided one-third through to sit on her haunches, which I know it impossible in a chair, but I just wanted to use the word haunches. She sat up with her elbows on her knees. Well her bouffant hairdo, which I don't know what that means, have only heard the word and have my own ideas of what a bouffant hairdo is and I could be wrong here but c'mon its a fun word, though French, and as Dennis Miller says, "the French are dead to me," entirely blocked my ability to see the subtitles. So I would routinely duck in and out of the lines of sight of the people on either side of me, surely pissing them off. So for about one-third of the movie, I had no idea what was going on. But sometimes, the images just transcend language. Kidding. I was completely lost when I could read again. I think they should put subtitles on the top of the screen, but that's just me.

Ebe had been heralding the director, Bertrand Tavernier at every opportunity, like five or six times a day. Turns out Bertie goes to all the festivals even when his work is not shown, just to network and have a great time. He had been to every screening thus far and had made friends with the unlikeliest of people. Just cracked me up, this guy. On the panel, he said he got two ultimate compliments about this film. The first was from another French director and he said that it was impossible to predict what the next scene would be. The second was from Steven Soderbergh (and I just blanked on how he spells his name... his first name) and he said that he watched "L.627" thrice when preparing "Traffic" and Bertrand praised the latter as phenomenal, so that was an extreme compliment he said. Fun guy.

Saturday was my earlier reported respite from the cinema. But I didn't slouch. No. I got up at 8:30 to go to a pre-law conference. It was both useful and useless. There were four forty-minute segments before a half-hour lunch. The first one was about admissions and was very informative. The second was a mock class, which was great. The third and fourth were identical and about job opportunities and to a lesser degree, making partner in a firm. Then lunch and I was starving. They had pizza and I ditched out after that. The last segment was a student panel and the 3L backed out at the last minute, so it would just have been the 1L and 2L, which in itself is not terrible. But I wanted to sleep and I felt that there is no way in hell that I am going to law school here, and most law schools are slightly different, though 1Ls generally are the same everywhere, but there was nothing I couldn't ascertain from Scott Turow's book I'm sure. No harm, no foul.

Then I napped after reading more about Ebola. Then I woke up groggily, misread Mary's away message about "deadend kids" and read it as "deadened kids" and was aghast -- sidenote, don't you think she should have spaced or hyphenated that? Because deadend is not one word to begin with, but it is easy to read it as "deadened" which may or may not be a word anyway, but conjures up terrible and sick images -- and got the call from Cindy that she was not going to see "Charlotte Sometimes" and I decided to skip it too, though I really wanted to see it. I didn't want to go alone plus I was tired, plus I felt overdosed on films. So I went to Barnes and Noble in an effort to catch up on school, which I had avoided since Tuesday.

Howie Day: Africa

Well, I didn't really open my bookbag/satchel thing. I caught up on magazines and culture. I read about Keanu and "The Matrix" sequels; the Peterson case in Cali; Dominick Dunne v. RFK Jr.; the new haircuts that "skilled barbers have come up with for the summer" and am heavily leaning towards the "modified shag" when I go in next month; read more about James Frey's edgy new memoir, "A Million Little Pieces"; high-class gadgets that someday, I will be able to afford. I also read up on the new cosmetic craze, which disturbingly is for men and involves foreskin reformation and reattachment. Now, to me, this just seems pointless. Why? Why do that? It hurt like hell when it was removed, so why go through pain for a hood? I'm perfectly happy without, and just can't understand why anyone would want to go under the knife for that. Besides, its cleaner our way and is much better received, so what is the point?!?!

Wallflowers: God Don't Make Lonely Girls (halfway through)

After B&N closed, I went for a drive. Every time I do this, which is infrequently, I go just a little bit farther to see just a little bit more of where I live now. Last time, I got completely lost in unincorporated Urbana, searching for a Chinese restaurant no less that happened to be much much closer to my apartment than I thought.

Matthew Good Band: Advertising on Police Cars

I imagine that in Urbana, they completely cut out one cardinal direction because it seems no matter what I do, I end up facing East or North and never anything else. While on this drive, my thoughts turned to very random ones. I need to download that Splender CD... I liked the first one, so I'll try the second one. I remembered how Mary and I used to have races where we'd drive with only our knees and see who got to a far off intersection first. I always suspected she cheated, but now that I think back, I would almost always go down Brainard which has a tight speed limit and is typically haunted by po-pos. I don't think I consciously drove responsibly (with my knees) but that subconsciously I took it easy while looking sporadically at the lighted golf course on the left and my grandma's house on the right, while aiming for the Lutheran school's steeple. I think I rarely beat her to Brainard and 47th, and she may have cheated from time to time because that's what she does. And before I get hate email (yeah, right) or silent IM threats from her, I sometimes cheat too. Because that's what I do. Anyway, I had the urge to again drive with just my knees like I was fooling my mom and secretly riding my bike in the street with no hands when she wasn't looking when I was 12. And apparently, Mary is perpetually 12... just ask the TCBY patrons.

Ryan Adams: Jesus (Don't Touch My Baby)

I also considered why I am not really a bar person in Champaign but was extremely in Ireland. I think it's because Dublin was so exotic to me, so new, so absolutely interesting and heightening and erotic and sublime on every level that drinking in a bar where it was legal was just something normal to me. Here, since I'm still illegal, there is no thrill, no need. Which I suppose is good. Anyway, I know that once I'm of legal age, this summer, things will get out of control, baby, just how I want them. This is not a summer to tell the children, except of course, for you children, you voracious readers of my online blog. You will be informed, surely. Boy, I'm diving head-first into vice when I turn... Vegas in June, bars all the time. I guess that's all that happens at 21, huh?

Sunday morning I woke up to the sound of Cindy calling me about the 1:00 movie. I decided to go at the behest of my sand buddy, since I so rarely get to see her, that jet-setting whirlwind (Italy! Boston! That girl can move!). That wily siren, she got me to go to "Singin' in the Rain" though we still didn't get to see Chaz, Rog's "Nubian princess" as Cin likes to call her. Well, it turned out to be a great time, since it suddenly got really fucking hot and I had Toph take the wheel on a straightaway while I took off my sweatshirt... oops, channeling my inner Eggers there for a second. Donald O'Connor the legend himself, was there and spoke. Funny old man. Example:

DO'C: ...Oh, I'm taking up too much time.
Ebe: No, you're really not.
DO'C: ...(gleeful pause) Alright.
(immense audience laughter... because they fucking clap and laugh at every little thing at this festival, though this was warranted)
Ebe: That was funny.
DO'C: (beat) No, that was timing.

Indigo Girls: Wild Horses (cover)

I got home about four and talked to my mother. Michelle makes her Confirmation Tuesday and my dad and her were at church. I found out that my mom has no idea what Michelle's Confirmation name will be, and when pressed had no clue as to what mine was or who my sponsor was. I couldn't believe it. She was there! She should know! She backpedalled and claimed that who cares, why should she have to know... she'll never use it EVER. And it was a losing battle, since I was only half serious and was not interested in getting into a fight, but I think she should know these minor details about her kids' lives. Considering it is relatively recent.

Well, that about does it for me. I'm glad I got to replicate my lost blog. Hope it's worth reading. Now, I will go back to being East German, or is it West German? It's been three years since I wrote a paper on the Berlin Wall's destruction and maybe I'll go research which was the good Allied side and which was the bad Commie side. I should probably know that.