There are so many intelligent and articulate people covering the hard-hitting
issues in our country these days, that I felt it was my duty to cover the
rather inconsequential bullshit that tends to make up the vast majority of
our lives. Actually, I'll just be griping a lot which, if you weren't aware,
doubles as a synonym for complaining, and as a descriptor for
a sharp pain in the bowels.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Noontime in Chicago

Excursions to the movies have been somewhat of a rarity for me for quite some time. I suppose in some ways I have always had a weird feeling about movies, or really just going to them. One thing I can't do, for instance, is go to the movies alone. And so I tend to end up there only on suggestion and invite, creating a rather incongruous map of films. This past Sunday I took in the film Midnight in Paris, on the invitation of a friend. As it happens, I hadn't heard of the film, but thanks to the wonders of the internet, a simple search of "new woody allen movie" yielded the film title and a allowed for a quick review of the cast.

Owen Wilson was about all I needed to see on the billing, as his presence alone generally produces something redeemable for me. The circumstances were opportune as they let me go into the film in my most preferred way: with next to no knowledge and thus next to no expectation. I'm not exactly the greatest film reviewer but I'll say this one is pretty delightful. I don't think I spoil a thing by pointing out it pokes fun at nostalgia and the concept of the golden age. See I like it when film and books poke fun at the things I get roiling around in my head from the standpoint of having been there. Condemnation without any association, on the other hand, aggravates me. You get to make the joke because you were or are part of the club. There are many choice characterizations of famed artists and authors that are playful and amusing.

Nor did it hurt to have some moments of Lea Seydoux who you know is clearly a model but has this "but I'm simple and could never be a model, I'm just this country girl" thing. The only problem I have with characters like hers is I then find myself out walking about expecting to find their carbon copy suited just pour moi (to use the extremely limited amount of French I have maintained). I can't explain why I chose French over Spanish in high school, but whatever the little spark was gets reawakened every time I see movies set in France. Heck, I'm listening to Carla Bruni songs at the moment just because of her cameo in the movie. It's a testament to the fleeting and obsessive nature that may always have existed but the presence of all this content at fingertips just seems to magnify.

Merde, it appears that I've already taken to a ramble-a-thon. The evolution or reverse evolution of my blog is such a strange thing to me. A day removed from my aggravating eavesdrop of coffee shop conversation (to be accurate, I wasn't so much eavesdropping as I was unable to ignore the loud and obnoxious monologue/vague dialogue going on next to me) I will refrain from comment as it is something I get to do plenty in here. In fact I feel as if I vacillate between those melancholies and these more joyful embrace posts.

So following that note, I'll keep a theme here and give love to the Chicago summer. It's hot for the moment, very hot, but out in the heat was a free concert treat, with Iron and Wine headlining a show opened by The Head and The Heart. Nevermind the music, which was great—although Iron and Wine sounded like a jam band to my surprise—the atmosphere was unbeatable. There had to be a good 7,000 18-35 year-olds, all in good spirits, likely augmented by having brought their own spirits, wine, beer, and that other grass to enjoy on the grass. I had waves of healthy nostalgia and, for those few hours, everything seemed right with the world.

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