First of all I would like to apologize to my husband for not waking him up sooner in order to enjoy a cup of espresso with me as well as a bagel from Irving’s. Time got away from me this morning. I had one more round (probably not really one more, but I’m drawing the line at five) of logos to create for the Gap-wearing hippies.
Anyhow, yes, I purchased a new camera this weekend. It’s damn pretty. I do believe I’m going to name him Otis. We’ll see. He could end up with little camera ovaries, in which case, she will be a girl named Otis. Such a fine girl, she will be.
This weekend, Toby and I visited Pennsyltuckey. We rented a car, an Impala to be exact. The car is huge. So huge, I may have ran over a cone at the gas station. The cone-carnage may have sent me into a fit of cheek-blushing giggles when I realized I killed the florescent bastard, dead, in front of taxi drivers and Sunday travelers.
We left on Saturday morning, bright and early. Equipped with bagels, Jay Z’s Grey Album, two Nirvana cds, and a mixed c.d. I had long forgotten about, we set out for the hills of Pennsyltuckey.
I love Pennsylvania. I have no idea when or how that happen, but I love the state. I even greet her when I’m driving. Every time I hit the border marked by the huge blue WELCOME TO PENNSYLVANIA! sign, I toot my horn. It’s just something that I do, my way of saying hello to her.
There’s something about that particular state. In between its hills-
within valleys that look like 80 year old skin-she lies flat and dirty. She’s like a dusty old car hiding her true personality, orphaned by a one-time loving owner. If you were ever forced to spend time in Pennsyltuckey, you’re aware of its worth. If even just through good and bad memories alone. If even if it felt as if you were going nowhere.
We drove via 15, through Gettysburg, Harrisburg, and Lewistown. We watched old farm houses spit out smoke through puffy, old cheeks. And the number of roadkill there! My goodness, the state motto should be changed to PENNSYLVANIA, THE ROADKILL STATE. I’m thinking of going into business. The business of stuffed highway roadkill. I will make coats and feed millions.
Film Follies was only o.k. It has occurred to me that it is indeed true that year you’re in is the best year. So that happens every year. There’s a pattern here. They’re not all the best. But they are all the same. There’s always a lot of ASS humor. (Now I know where I get it from). There’s a lot of sexual innuendoes, TV smashing messages, booze-bingeing messages, in-the-closet wanna get humpy on your frat boy best buddy sorts of messages, girls being beaten sorts of messages, you get the point. Rarely do we see something new addressed. Two years ago, people created September 11 montages, but that was just trite.
Perhaps I’m a tough critique.
This year, however, the leaders (16 mm films synced to music, animated frame by frame by sleep deprived students) were phenomenal. They were superb.
We hung out at the University Club. Where I had walked by thousands of times but never was invited in. I had a coworker who got it on with a smart guy who lived there. But the closest I ever came to getting inside the University Club was renting him a movie once or twice.
I didn’t want to be a part of that club anyway.
We hung out at the Garage Mahal. We sipped Straub beer and play pool. We visited Zeno’s which is located directly above the center of the Earth. I saw the BIGGEST most disturbing pile of vomit I have ever seen in my life. I was shocked by the amount of food that came out of that person’s face. It was an astonishing amount. Surely would have entered the Vomit Book of World’s Records. I almost took a picture to send here, because I surely would have guessed it to be soup.
Enough about that.
We arrived home yesterday evening just in time to order Thai food and watch the Sopranos, which was so unbelievably good. I don’t think there was ever a show which has ever made me feel so uneasy. Wonderful.
It’s time to get bundled up now and face the frigid tundra. I just can’t believe we’re considered south.