"You don't understand what it's like to disappear! To be nothing; to be annihilated!"

Edward Hermann's character is one of my favorite parts of this film.

As Balzac said, 'There goes another novel.'

From Woody Allen's Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex *But Were Afraid to Ask.

"It's an epiphany of the soul"

I am in love with this film. Truly, madly, deeply.

"What are you, joining a minstrel show?"

I bought some black soap today.

"Into the void."

Day 2 of life among the physically impaired. Everyone Says I Love You is on tv. I forgot Billy Crudup is in this; boy is he dreamy. Also, Vincent Gallo extends his presence a few times as Julia Roberts' husband. Honestly, I consider this to be one of Woody Allen's most entertaining movies. Anyway, onto more important things.

Apparently there's a clusterfuck of a Michael Jackson memorial service going down in the city of angels now. I didn't really keep track of any of the hullaballoo post hearing about his death from the guy who works in the toll booth right before you get on the Bay Bridge, and I think we can all agree that the whole thing has erupted in a fashion most tasteless. But, as long as we're gripped to the topic, might I (better late than never) take a moment and give a nod to Michael Thomas' piece in the NY Times regarding the star's death? I don't know. Maybe, for me, who inevitably bears some kind of displacement whenever something like this--some national tragedy--occurs, it's easier to find comfort when the events are stripped of their newscast format and translated into something more familiar. Like prose. A slice out of one pretty good writer's memoir. The anecdotes about his brother, I found so appropriately included.

Alas, a seemingly most fitting conclusion to this post. This movie is so quintessentially, ridiculously Woody Allen:

"Why can't we have frankfurters?"

..."Because, this is the Russian Tea Room, you wanna have a blintz or something. Besides, frankfurters give you cancer."

Can't really type. Burned my hand, steaming some milk at the bakery. Endowed with a bottle of some dangerously fun painkillers. Off work for a couple days. My job is becoming more and more surreal. Slowly trashing the empty house. Watching lots of Jacques Tati and Woody Allen. Reading.. uh.. Virginia Woolf. Yeah. Booking my flight to Singapore in a couple weeks. Both of my dogs are snoring in my bed. That is all.


::Edit::
Allow me, now that typing is a task slightly less cumbersome, to extend my props to Turner Classic Movies. Apparently every Sunday night is "Silent Sunday," on which they only play, you guessed it, silent films. Which is great! As I mentioned earlier, last night they played two or three Jacques Tati films, including Mr. Hulot's Holiday, and tonight, funnily enough, is Meryl Streep night, which after the day I've had and the amount of medication I've consumed, feels strangely perfect. Sophie's Choice is on just now and I'm pretty stoked to be watching Kevin Kline, but sort of wish I was watching A Fish Called Wanda instead. So thanks, TCM, for placating me. I really like the way you arrange nights by theme, and am usually on board in terms of considering most of your choices to be good, interesting ones. You're definitely the realest thing out there, as far as movie channels go.