As I’ve gotten more used to this blogging game, I’ve learned to censor my output. For instance, I wanted to write a blog post today about how awesome Pretzel M&M’s are, because not only do they taste delicious, but they also are only 150 calories per pack. Amazing, right? Oh wait, no one gives a shit.
Then I was going to write a review of Prometheus, which I saw this weekend with Silky Wilky (whose nickname I recently shortened to “Silks”). He made it abundantly clear that I understood nothing about the movie when leaving the theater, I began complaining about the unimaginative architecture inside of the Dome of Alien Death. “You’d think that they would throw in some intricate carvings, or a room full of space jewels,” I said. “Given how far we’ve come with technology.”
“You really choose the most irrelevant things to comment on,” he told me. “Stop talking.”
I still might write a review, for those of you out there who would have enjoyed a few costume changes, or at least a fucking ancient female character. Either that, or a good screenplay.
Which brings me to two other random thoughts I had while sitting here, thinking about what to write today.
The first is that the science fiction issue of the New Yorker is unreadably bad. I did not finish a single personal essay, and also, aren’t all of the people who wrote them dead? If Junot Diaz writes another storia en espanol sin italics about his homeboy maracon, I’m going to shoot myself in the head. And Jennifer Egan, your robot was lame.
The second was that Richard Brody referenced Godard’s Histoire(s) du Cinéma in his review of Episode 9 of Girls. Whatever he has to say about Girls is completely irrelevant, so it’s hilarious that he wrote the recap. Even if it’s not true, I imagine Richard Brody to be like 75, sitting in a sagging chair in his hoarder style library, like a John Updike character only without the blow jobs. At first, I was pissed that he tied in the beginning shot in the episode to Godard, because come on, those bitches are not referencing Godard, they are referencing themselves, and they are no fucking Anna Karina(s?). Also, Histoire(s) du Cinema is MY pretentious reference to make. But then I realized Brody just wrote a book on Godard, and also, he is adorable, so I forgave him.
The above paragraph makes no sense. My bad!
That’s basically all that I thought about today besides what I was going to eat, and how I could avoid leaving the house. Hey, at least you learned something about nutrition (see: Pretzel M&Ms).