In the past few days, I've been lucky enough to hear from some of my old (and not-so-old) friends who are currently living in Singapore and in the Dominican Republic. Not to be cliche... but it's pretty great to know people who live thousands of miles away. It's like having pen pals, but better, somehow.
The England crew, however, has been conspicuously silent as of late. I hope we're not looking at them sliding down the power rankings.
Oh, who am I kidding?
England will always be my #1.
Great list of the top 50 movies of the millenium, so far.
Incredibly, sadly, or somewhere in between, I have seen 33 of them.
Hey! Look who else has a blog!
It continues to rain outside, as it has been doing up and down the East Coast for the past 24 hours or so. And I LOVE it.
Sure, walking the dog was a pain in the ass this morning. And sure, I couldn't be bothered to change my shirt after walking out into a "break" in the constant storming, only to get caught in a torrential downpour minutes later. So I'm sure I'll be catching a cold, shortly, if not the avian flu.
But I love the rain, right now.
Because this weekend is set up to be a lazy, relaxing weekend-- nothing but football and reading, little else. And I love that. It's exactly what I need, following the stress of (travelling to) Denver and a week of staying up far too late for my own good.
Watching Lord knows what.
At the risk of horrifying you, here is some of what I am currently reading (or what I have out from the library, anyway):
Lunar Park - Bret Easton Ellis
Killing Yourself to Live - Chuck Klosterman
some miscellaneous VHS tape on Meditation for Beginners, which was a load of crap
(in the queue)
Shalimar the Clown - Salman Rushdie
Snow Crash - Neal Stephenson
Pledged: The Secret Life of Sororities - Alexandra Robbins
20 Minute Vacations - Judith Sachs
In the Shadow of the Law - Kermit Roosevelt
What Should I Do with My Life? - Po Bronson
You, the Owner's Manual - Dr. Michael Roizen
Brief Interviews with Hideous Men - David Foster Wallace
Much of the self-help schlock on the list? I won't even open the books, out of embarrassment.
And I'll spare you the list of the books that I have on hold.
If you're asking where I have the time to read all this... I don't, really. I generally read only a handful (or portions thereof) of every ten books I grab from the shelves.
Still. It's like a sickness. Borderline OCD. Wherever I move to next... there must be a library within striking distance.
There's got to be.
I may have found a new friend, by the way.
I doubt it, though.
"Our" contractor-to-be, Steve, came by last night to take measurements, so that he could buy tile and paint and such for the master bathroom, which will finally be torn up and redone in about two weeks or so. In an attempt to make conversation, I made the what-was-I-thinking? mistake of mentioning THE SITUATION to him, thinking Abby might have told him herself, and, of course, it turned into A THING.
He told me that he's been married at least once, maybe twice, and just hates the institution. Despises it. Swears that men should know better, animals aren't monogamous, its unnatural, yadda yadda yadda. His rant went on and on for awhile, and all I could do was mentally slap the shit out myself for opening the door.
But then he started talking about guy things, things you could do "without havin' to ask some broad's permission," and eventually came to talk about fishing. He's a championship-level fisherman, apparently, having entered (and won) local competitions in and around the DC area.
I told Steve that I knew less than nothing about fishing, and had no experience with it apart from crabbing, save for the fact (and I did not tell him this part) that as a young man, I lost my father's rod (ahem) once, when we went fishing as part of an event through our synagogue's Men's Club.
What was supposed to be a father-son bonding experience (along with other fathers and other sons) turned to horror and shame, when, from below the water, some strange force or another allowed my hands to, for the briefest of seconds, let go of the fishing pole, effectively and immediately dropping hundreds of dollars worth of equipment into the briny deep, never to be recovered, while my dad and his friends watched, appalled and disappointed.
I sat off to the side of the boat for the remainder of the excursion, for what seemed like hours (and may have been) from what I remember, traumatized. I couldn't have been more than 9 at the time, though if asked about it, Dad might be able to tell me that it actually happened when I was 22. I honestly don't remember.
Anyway, what I actually told Steve was that while I was out West last week, everyone in Denver talked about fly-fishing, the beauty, the glory, the Brad-Pitt-and-Robert-Redford-in-a-river-out-West of it all. And I wanted to learn, take it up, be a man, take lessons.
Steve's eyes lit up, and he swore up and down that he'd be thrilled to take me out and learn me a few lessons. That there's nothing like it in the world, that the fishing in this area is phenomenal, that he'd be a great teacher and happy to share what he knew with me, and take me out, and I'd become a champion, too, and...
So many life changes to make, so little time.