We’ve arrived on a meta-fictional Tuesday, the day Alabamaniacs choose whether they are pro- or con- child brides. It won’t matter, of course, because the American Empire is collapsing, being flushed down the bog and taking us all with it.
Had a nightmare of a day Monday which snaked its way to a sleepless night into morning. When I did sleep, the dreams were minimal. Mostly, just a TV tuned to a dead station. Back in the old days, before the digital conversion, a dead TV screen was a visual jumble of static, echoes from the Big Bang, aliens, whatever you want to call it. Nowadays, it’s just a blue screen. Where the fuck is the fun in that? Kids these days no longer have the option of straining their ears to listen to “The Voices”.
It’s a cold and blustery 28F today. This isn’t ideal weather to go traipsing out to retrieve your medications from the pharmacy but traipse I did. My body is still defrosting and my brain is somewhere in the mushy netherworld of survival and consciousness. As a result, my head feels like cold turkey fat tastes, which I blame primarily on the lack of sleep. Even hot cocoa is having a hard time removing The Chill.
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On the recommendation of a friend, I watched L’homme du Train the other night. As you might ascertain by the title, it’s a French film. It stars Jean Rochefort and Johnny Hallyday (both of whom recently passed away) as two men who meet by chance. Hallyday, the titular man on the train, has arrived in a small town for a bank heist. Unable to find accommodations, he is taken in by Rochefort, a retired poetry teacher who lives alone in the large house that his mother left to him. Each face a significant event at the end of the week (one, the bank heist, the other, a triple bypass surgery) and each discover that they wish to live each other’s lives. Rocherfort, having always been a teacher and taken the safe way through life, is intrigued by Hallyday’s life. Hallyday, meanwhile, learns to appreciate the subtle charm to Rochefort’s life, one steeped in poetry, nice slippers, and such.
Don’t be fooled by its description as a crime/drama as it belies the fascinating character study that makes this a really enjoyable film.
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The recent news about an oddly-shaped asteroid triggers memories Grant Morrison’s profoundly disturbing series, Nameless. This comic book isn’t for everyone and if ancient horrors, mindless slaughter, non-linear storytelling, and Occult-heavy narrative aren’t your cup of tea, well… fuck it, you need to be unsettled every once in a while. Read it. Is it Oumuamua or is it Xibalba? Only her hairstylist knows for sure.
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Over the weekend, I went to see my mates’ band play at the Southgate House Revival. They were fucking great, as always, but aside from documenting some of the bathroom graffiti and such, I managed to snap this picture. Here’s looking at you, Newport, KY.
