Last Tango in Worcester
To continue the trend of Parisian themed movie viewings upon trips home, I watched (half of) Last Tango in Paris last night instead of watching The Family Stone for the tenth time, except I never manage to watch the whole thing at once, and maybe I purposefully try to not watch the end when the house looks so cold and lonely without Diane Keaton, who I want to be my mother and my lover, sort of. But not at the same time, or in the same fantasy. ew. Only, and I have in good faith that at least one other person in the world feels this way, I kind of feel like I have to watch it. Sort of like the end of the Notebook. Who watches the Notebook. I do. Shutup. This is a good step in the direction of upcoming New Years Resolutions, in which I will renew my vows to enlighten myself, watch more movies, get smart, and run a 100 mile marathon sometime in the next 20 years. Oh and the Iditarod. Who says I can’t live the gritty american dream? I used to think I hated Jonathan Safran Foer until today, when I bought his new book Eating Animals for my dad (he doesn’t read this blog, don’t worry. xmas present secrecy is nothing to joke about), and he told me that he, too, made a lot of vows he never could keep. Thank god for the good pool of common vices we can all go down to drink in. Maybe he’d run an ultramarathon with me. Or at least say he would.
This is the weird trailer for the movie. Or maybe it’s not weird at all, and I’ve just completely lost touch with the artist in me. Who am I??? I like the movie so far but I do feel somewhat lost. Do people really have sex with men who appear out of nowhere? Do they wear shirt/dresses that short in Paris? Did the “no names” speech sound as forced to everyone else? Will I ever go to Paris? Or run 100 miles? These are the questions.
Well, as you all (probably don’t) know, I was studying for the LSAT, and then I took it, and then I took it again. Remember when I told you I was either going to be a writer or a lawyer? It looks like I’m going to be a lawyer. Oliver Wendell Holmes 1, Stephen King 0. (By the way, Stephen King’s new book was not so fantastic. The Common Law, however, continues to be a crowd pleaser). The thought of writing a poem makes me want to vomit. With nostalgia? With anxiety? With sadness? With frustration? Or D, all of the above. I am full of questions this Christmas, and santa is for sure not leaving any answers under the tree. What does this mean for me, powell, esq? we will see. we can only wait and see.
Last Christmas, I gave you my heart The very next day, you gave it away.
I didn’t write that one. I’m just warming up.