as i was saying...
[pretend you read this yesterday.]
"Solo trip for lunch?" a coworker asked after I anounced to the room that I was going to grab a bite to eat. Lunch is by far the most important aspect of my office's environment, and effectively, my most important meal of the day.
"Yep, looks that way," I answered. "It's cool. It's a nice walk."
"Good day for it, too," he said.
I was on the phone with my dad lamenting the Mets third straight loss to open the season when I noticed the clouds looming on the horizon.
"I heard it's nice over there," my dad said over my cell phone.
"Yeah it is...there's clouds, but I don't think they're rain clouds."
They were, in fact, rain clouds. I learned of this when my nubile waitress said to no one in particular, "It's really coming down out there." And it was. I stalled as I paid my bill, balancing my checkbook and watching muted ESPN, hoping the rain would subside so I could walk run to the PG&E office to pay our gas and electric bill, which was on my way back to the office, but the stream of precipitation remained steady.
I was about an hour and a half into my lunch break, so I had to suck it up and make the long walk back--at least it wasn't thunder and lightning or anything.
A block later, I picked up the place as thunder rumbled, lightning flashed and tiny bits of hail showered down upon me. It wasn't the nastiest storm I'd seen. California thunderstorms are cute compared to the ones back east or on the plains, but I never had to walk a mile in those either. I made it into the PG&E office just in time to see the storm go to cute from ugly.
I paid the bill, but was still three or four blocks away from work. There was no way I was going to walk in that, so I asked if it was cool to hang in the buidling until the storm passed. It was, but I would have stayed anyway if it wasn't. Soon, I got a phone call from one of my coworkers who had heard I was out walking in this mess. She drove over and rescued me. Such heroics were echoed in my choice of evening's entertainment, Sin City.
"Solo trip for lunch?" a coworker asked after I anounced to the room that I was going to grab a bite to eat. Lunch is by far the most important aspect of my office's environment, and effectively, my most important meal of the day.
"Yep, looks that way," I answered. "It's cool. It's a nice walk."
"Good day for it, too," he said.
I was on the phone with my dad lamenting the Mets third straight loss to open the season when I noticed the clouds looming on the horizon.
"I heard it's nice over there," my dad said over my cell phone.
"Yeah it is...there's clouds, but I don't think they're rain clouds."
They were, in fact, rain clouds. I learned of this when my nubile waitress said to no one in particular, "It's really coming down out there." And it was. I stalled as I paid my bill, balancing my checkbook and watching muted ESPN, hoping the rain would subside so I could walk run to the PG&E office to pay our gas and electric bill, which was on my way back to the office, but the stream of precipitation remained steady.
I was about an hour and a half into my lunch break, so I had to suck it up and make the long walk back--at least it wasn't thunder and lightning or anything.
A block later, I picked up the place as thunder rumbled, lightning flashed and tiny bits of hail showered down upon me. It wasn't the nastiest storm I'd seen. California thunderstorms are cute compared to the ones back east or on the plains, but I never had to walk a mile in those either. I made it into the PG&E office just in time to see the storm go to cute from ugly.
I paid the bill, but was still three or four blocks away from work. There was no way I was going to walk in that, so I asked if it was cool to hang in the buidling until the storm passed. It was, but I would have stayed anyway if it wasn't. Soon, I got a phone call from one of my coworkers who had heard I was out walking in this mess. She drove over and rescued me. Such heroics were echoed in my choice of evening's entertainment, Sin City.
whimper...
I was never a big follower of the graphic novels, but working in a comic store pretty much requires you to have loads of respect for Frank Miller; and truth be told, he is one of the finest writers in modern comics. Granted, there are probably a few more than three pure writers in modern comics (the other two being Neil Gaiman and Alan Moore(there are other good ones, too, but, well, I'm not going to come off as more of a geek by listing them)), but still. Frank Miller writes from the groin, and it shows. His stories are loaded with sex, violence and adolescent male fantasy, none of which make for high art, but Miller's stuff is seems so much more over the top and self aware. It doesn't lie or pretend; it is what it is and it's brutally honest. All of these things carried over into the film, which looked like a living version of one of Frank's books. Even the storytelling was episodic, much like a comic book.
The movie is full of stylized violence, hardboiled heroism and miles of drool-enducing woman flesh, such as Jessica Alba, pictured to the right, because I'm a pervert.
This isn't a date movie. It's a lonely 13-year-old boy's violent masturbatory fantasy, but it's remarkably well done and entertaining, and Bruce Willis, Mickey Rourke and Benicio del Toro all pull down gritty, hyperbolic performances without coming off as schmaltzy.
---
I took myself to the movies, because everyone I know in town had seen it already. I had to take a cab to get there, and I called a cab to get me. Oustide, bats were treating the parking lot lights like buffets, snatching up mystified moths, and instead of going home, I instructed the driver to take me to the local watering hole. There were some people there from work, but the place was pretty emtpy, and everyone called it an early night. I craved another Guinness so I stopped at the 7-Eleven to pick up a bottle of extra stout for the walk home. I hadn't eaten a proper dinner, unless you count Red Vines, so my head was swimming a bit as I wrapped the bottle in the brown paper bag, concealing its contents in such a manner that anyone who saw it would know that I was carrying alcohol. I strolled a long the busy street that leads me home, caught up in my arts & crafts project when I was startled by someone approaching on my left.
"You're not thinking of cracking that open now are you?" he asked.
"No," I answered with a laugh. I was waiting until I went around the corner.
The movie is full of stylized violence, hardboiled heroism and miles of drool-enducing woman flesh, such as Jessica Alba, pictured to the right, because I'm a pervert.
This isn't a date movie. It's a lonely 13-year-old boy's violent masturbatory fantasy, but it's remarkably well done and entertaining, and Bruce Willis, Mickey Rourke and Benicio del Toro all pull down gritty, hyperbolic performances without coming off as schmaltzy.
---
I took myself to the movies, because everyone I know in town had seen it already. I had to take a cab to get there, and I called a cab to get me. Oustide, bats were treating the parking lot lights like buffets, snatching up mystified moths, and instead of going home, I instructed the driver to take me to the local watering hole. There were some people there from work, but the place was pretty emtpy, and everyone called it an early night. I craved another Guinness so I stopped at the 7-Eleven to pick up a bottle of extra stout for the walk home. I hadn't eaten a proper dinner, unless you count Red Vines, so my head was swimming a bit as I wrapped the bottle in the brown paper bag, concealing its contents in such a manner that anyone who saw it would know that I was carrying alcohol. I strolled a long the busy street that leads me home, caught up in my arts & crafts project when I was startled by someone approaching on my left.
"You're not thinking of cracking that open now are you?" he asked.
"No," I answered with a laugh. I was waiting until I went around the corner.
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