02.26.07
All of a sudden I could hear somebody whistling from right behind me. I turned around and she said “Why do you always end up down at Nick’s Cafe?”
Succulent Sunday: The Oscar’s Edition.
I had left my bag at the Pub on Friday night - not that there was anything of major importance in it, but I did want the Christopher Moore book I was reading for the Monday Morning commute, and my scarf because the weather report was calling for snow…
My intention was to just pop in, grab my stuff and head home, but I haven’t seen the Director in a while, and what the hell, Bartender Jason has already poured me a pint. The Pub is practically empty and quiet, the only movement from the flickering video screens, showing Red Carpet arrivals. The Director seems quiet and contemplative. I ask him why.
‘I’ve been working non-stop since the year began, I’ve only had 3 days off, and I was sick for 2 of them.’ - Ah. Another victim of not just burning the candle at both ends, but surely saying ‘fuck it’ and throwing the candle into the bonfire. He’s been doing way too much, between massive shifts at the pub, auditioning, getting legal stuff together for his legal action regarding the missing film, and revving up for the reshoot (now officially slated for the end of June).
We talk for a while, I had sent him sketches for the animation, and he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that my first attempt was the best - which will speed up the whole production process tenfold. Most of the Elsbeth character animation has been done, and all it will take is some tweaks and polish - and it will be the trailer for his website… We’re busy discussing this and we are interrupted by Angie, the blond Montanan who squeals over some dress paraded on screen.
Its amazing how people can be so absorbed by this shit - I can only imagine that the masses in the Middle Ages were captivated like this, as the Royalty paraded themselves in gilt coaches, the guards lining the thoroughfare - the throngs of plebes throwing flowers - perhaps its something in our makeup that captures the attention so readily. I remind myself that a few scant years ago, I’d be stuck at the Major Metro newspaper, beating my head against my monitor, waiting for the AP photographers to send in celebrity photos - chained to my desk until the last speech was made, aching to leave, frustrated by the nature of the job - which meant “Stay until the last story is done”.
Funny, I guess that being inured to the media to such a degree has rendered me immune to the lure that has everyone else so entranced. I wander outside for a smoke - the tang in the air smells like snow, and as soon as I sense it - the first flake lands on my nose. A minute later, its coming down pretty good. Fighting the exhaustion of the weekend, and my natural instinct to hibernate, I bade the gang goodnight, sleep pulling my feet homeward, Robbie Robertson on the Ipod:
Take a picture of this
The fields are empty, abandoned ‘59 Chevy
Laying in the back seat listening to Little Willie John
Yea, that’s when time stood still
You know, I think I’m gonna go down to Madam X
And let her read my mind
She said “That Voodoo stuff don’t do nothing for me.”
I’m a man with a clear destination
I’m a man with a broad imagination
You fog the mind, you stir the soul
I can’t find, … no control
