Really? A “Clueless” birthday card? Exactly what year do you think we’re in, Hallmark?
I just noticed that when I’m watching TV, i immediately fast forward whenever a character in a show or a movie is about to do something embarrassing or confront someone else. I’ve been doing it more and more for weeks now.
Does that mean something?
“That doesn’t have anything to do with it,” Constance said dismissively and Henry felt, rather than saw, Tommy’s softly humming anger at the response. Inwardly, he sighed. The lines, the sides, they were always drawn. “I’m telling you. There’s no other explanation.”
“Please.” Val snorted.
She feigned ignorance and set her mug on the counter behind her. “You have something to say, Val, maybe you should say it.”
Instead, her coffee cup slid across the counter on its own accord, slowly and in a perfectly straight line and directly into Val’s waiting hand. He picked it up and arched an eyebrow, sipping it calmly. “No, maybe you should. For a change.”
I forgot to watch Lost two weeks in a row. I’m watching it now, catching up, and wondering why I don’t feel an urgency to watch this show, to see what’s going to happen week to week. Why don’t I feel this kind of low-grade desperation for Tuesday night to get here, just so I can camp out in front of the TV and see what happens next?
Maybe it’s because this whole air of secrecy (the story parcels out bits and pieces of information. You, the viewer, are on a strictly need-to-know basis) is all a little too much for me. They’ve pushed me so far back that they’ve succeeded more in distancing me from the story than drawing me in. Which, I suppose, is a valid risk to take when telling a story. Unless it fails.
I also know that there’s a risk, a big risk, that this show is going to end and leave us with…nothing. Just a lot of questions.
I sit at the top of the stairs that lead to the backyard, on the phone, and pause to call the dog. I tell him to come but he doesn’t. Once, and then one more time and louder too in case he’s around the corner and my voice didn’t carry enough. I call again and this time I hear him shake, hear the rattle of his collar. He’s by the gate, ignoring me, ignoring the call. He wants to go out for a walk. I know this. I knew this when I got up from the couch, done with dinner, and he practically jumped into the air by my shoes, by my coat and his leash. I apologize to Liz, who’s waiting for me on the phone, and I clomp down the steps, angry now.
When he doesn’t come as called, I get angry. Really angry. So angry that I think, “I can never have kids. How can I have kids if I get so irreparably angry over a misbehaving dog?” I can feel it at the pit of my stomach. I stop and stare at him in the backyard, him by the gate and me by the steps, phone by my ear. I tell him to come again and he shakes his head and takes a few steps toward me, only to turn and face the gate. He wants to walk. It makes me angrier.
I don’t see him home all day, curled up on his bed, bored, sleeping, waiting for me to come home. Six hours from the time I leave until the dogwalker comes (Ty, who’s moving to New York soon) and then four, maybe five hours until I walk in the door. I don’t see him in my silent, waiting apartment, his head pressed against the floor, listening for the distinctive way I open the door downstairs, check the mail, hit the steps on my way up. I don’t see his feet underneath the door.
Instead, I see him standing at the gate, wanting one thing when I’ve clearly demanded something else. I step forward and grab him by the collar and pull him a few steps toward the stairs and I snap, “UP” and my voice isn’t calm, I’m not centered or balanced or whatever Cesar wants me to be. He takes for the steps at a full run. His ears are back and his tail is down.
I’m still angry now, even though for him the moment has passed and now we’re on to a different thing entirely, me at the computer, him curled around the wheels of my chair, this is a familiar refrain. I’m still angry even though I got what I wanted and he didn’t. He wanted to walk. I didn’t. He’s not angry but I am.
The brother and I are very VERY excited about this…
when you remind yourself that no one needs to see it until you feel it’s ready.
One of my favorite scenes- starts at 4:18.
Tommy and Claudia in the kitchen. It makes me miss Thanksgiving. And my own brother. And Anne Bancroft. Not particularly in that order.
“You suggest — without irony, as an American, in 2010 — that we, a nation with a population one tenth the size of yours, should have spent another $360 million on an opening ceremony because, I guess, it wasn’t good enough for you. Call us crazy (or boring), I know, but here we save up for our retirement, not our heart attacks.
We put the proudest, butchiest lesbian ever on an international stage to sing the living shit out of a song widely considered to be among the best ever written. Ever. We’re understandably proud of that. (Also, that lesbian? Totally allowed to get married here in our hopelessly-decade-behind-the-times little backwater. When, oh, when will we ever catch up to rest of the world?)
We put on an original experience designed to showcase our talents, history and contributions. It wasn’t a homogenized, sanitized Hollywood production, and I’m glad because that’s not who we are. You didn’t have to love it but it’s really amazing that you couldn’t even try to appreciate it and throw out a few kind words to your neighbour. Criticism is one thing. This was just flat-out arrogant, ignorant bitchiness.”
