the day before New Year's...
Dec. 30th, 2004 01:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sabotabbyOkay, folks. If you're in Hogtown with nothing to do tomorrow, drop me a line. I suspect my evening shall involve the usual vigil in front of the Israeli consulate (as it's Friday), then Vietnamese food at Pho Hung, and then rampant drinking. If all goes well, this drinking will take place at McVeigh's, but if you're interested in tagging along, let me know first as plans are always up in the air.
I alternate between hopeful and depressed around New Year's. It's a big deal: I don't like being alone, and I really don't like being sober.
I went to see Bukowski: Born Into This last night. Very inspirational; I wish I'd been born Charles Bukowski sometimes instead of me. Here I am, struggling to get through half a page of writing a night, on a novel that's taken me three years or so, and he used to churn out three short stories a week. Maybe I should go to the racetrack and write, but I think the noise would get to me.
The best parts of the movie were the interviews with Tom Waits, because all he needs to do is talk and I melt into a puddle of goo. Doesn't matter what he's saying.
The second-best part was a story one of Bukowski's friends told. During the Vietnam War, some of the hippies threw a big party and they were sitting around talking about how awful the war was. A guy started hollering that he'd been in the war, and they had no idea what they were talking about, that it was right and proper to kill for your country, etc. Everyone fled except for Bukowski, because he all of a sudden had the guy's gun pointed at his head, and the friend telling the story, because he was in the kitchen, trying to edge out to call for help.
Well, Bukowksi looks the guy straight in the face and says, "Go ahead. Kill me. I'm trying to die. You've got a problem: Life in jail, or the electric chair. But I want to die. So do it. I don't think you have the guts."
The guy promptly dropped the gun and broke down crying.
I wish I could be that cool, except on a global scale.
ETA:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bike4fish rocks my world in ways no other man ever has!
(Get your mind out of the gutter, folks. He sent me cookies. In the mail. With alcohol in them.)
::faints::
I alternate between hopeful and depressed around New Year's. It's a big deal: I don't like being alone, and I really don't like being sober.
I went to see Bukowski: Born Into This last night. Very inspirational; I wish I'd been born Charles Bukowski sometimes instead of me. Here I am, struggling to get through half a page of writing a night, on a novel that's taken me three years or so, and he used to churn out three short stories a week. Maybe I should go to the racetrack and write, but I think the noise would get to me.
The best parts of the movie were the interviews with Tom Waits, because all he needs to do is talk and I melt into a puddle of goo. Doesn't matter what he's saying.
The second-best part was a story one of Bukowski's friends told. During the Vietnam War, some of the hippies threw a big party and they were sitting around talking about how awful the war was. A guy started hollering that he'd been in the war, and they had no idea what they were talking about, that it was right and proper to kill for your country, etc. Everyone fled except for Bukowski, because he all of a sudden had the guy's gun pointed at his head, and the friend telling the story, because he was in the kitchen, trying to edge out to call for help.
Well, Bukowksi looks the guy straight in the face and says, "Go ahead. Kill me. I'm trying to die. You've got a problem: Life in jail, or the electric chair. But I want to die. So do it. I don't think you have the guts."
The guy promptly dropped the gun and broke down crying.
I wish I could be that cool, except on a global scale.
ETA:
bike4fish rocks my world in ways no other man ever has!(Get your mind out of the gutter, folks. He sent me cookies. In the mail. With alcohol in them.)
::faints::
