Short of high school stories, or event-based blogging, I have nothing for you.
I watched “We Don’t Live Here Anymore” last night. It was well acted, but excruciating. Especially the scene when Mark Ruffalo’s kids jump up on his bed and say, “Is mommy leaving?” That was too close to home. Worse, though, was the kid’s reaction when he said, “No, honey. Mommy and daddy were just arguing.” And they bought it. They were like, ok with it.
I did succeed in not finishing the whole pint of Ben & Jerry’s strawberry ice cream, which may have been a first. But after an entire Mama Celeste pizza and a few Stellas, well, a little discipline was in order.
I was in bed by ten.
This morning was kinda’ nice. I love the fog. I’ll take it over clouds anyway. (I know, fog is clouds, but you know what I mean.) There’s something romantic and vaguely European about it. And I feel invisible in it, which is always a plus.
I managed to get a run in, prompted largely by the previous evening’s dinner. (I made a promise to myself — flashback to Tuesday’s post: one part of “me” was talking to another part of “me” — that if I went with the pizza, ice cream, beer combo, I’d have to run in the morning.) Midway around the fog-locked reservoir, I was reminded of a conversation I’d had with Robert about “the first step [being] the hardest part.” True enough, but not this morning. Every step was difficult.
I’m on the fence as to whether to rent The Open Center for a February 5 solo acoustic show. I’m not sure anyone will come. Will you? Or should I play Alphabet Lounge again? (What I really want to do is break into Pianos and The Living Room, then make encore appearences at The Cutting Room and CB’s 313, but it’ll take months to whittle down the respective booker’s inherent resistance.) And I’m on the fence as to whether I’ll be going to the Sundance Film Festival next week (it looks promising), whether I’ll be going to the Grammys next month (50/50), and whether it’s fiscally responsible to go to Australia in March.