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Thoughts Going Down Ahh...It's not what you think, I promise! I like Kieran Culkin much more than his freak brother (I always hated those fucking HOME ALONE flicks). I rented IGBY GOES DOWN two days ago, and it has to go back to Cockbluster tomorrow, so I sat down and watched it this evening (guilty pleasure, as I'm supposed to be nearly done packing my life into cardboard boxes for people with larger muscles than mine to be paid to move into my newer, smaller more expensive digs tomorrow afternoon -- I've accomplished quite a bit today, though; the furniture has been ordered, and my living room will be retro-mod fabulous, and I will be a few thousand dollars more in debt, and comparatively little packing remains, just the kitchen and a few little things, really, though those are always the killers...Later tonight, I'll drive all my hanging clothes and art over to the new place and maybe do some laundry so I can start wearing underwear again). I thought it was pretty brutal, and decidedly not uplifting, but very well done, and there was something in it that reminded me of me -- the way things can go so terribly wrong, but then, sometimes, despite it all, you end up okay. I used to play the game terrifically right. My senior year in high school, USA TODAY declared me one of the ten brightest young people in the nation; Dartmouth had declared me the leading young man in my class in my little private preppy day school in Buttfuck, Virginia the year before; I was headed off to Yale. Somehow, when I got there, something went terribly wrong, and I learned to be a bitter, distracted fuck-up who's paranoid that his shadow might at any moment pull a knife on him (I learned a few other things too, like how to be a pretty decent theatre director, how to speak French well enough to be mistaken for Swiss, and how to drink, smoke and fuck excessively). It is only a slight exaggeration to say that I barely graduated. I ran away to Paris (What transpired there is fodder for another entry, but my shadow followed, knife and all, and dragged me back to the U.S.), then when I realised I "had to" come back to the 'States, I wandered, rudderless, for a few years (nasty things happened; I went into therapy; I took large doses of SSRIs; I made drastic changes and stopped both the therapy and the meds, 'cause I realised I didn't need them). Now, it happens that my life is really pretty good. I have a decent job, one that seems "befitting an alumnus of an Ivy League Institution" (emphasis on the last word); I make a decent amount of money; I am well-liked and mostly pretty and happy...and pretty happy. But I am still, make no mistake, a sublime fuck-up who fails to realise his own potential. And it is nobody's fault but my own. What was it the Bradys sang? "When it's time to change, you've got to re-arrange..." Yes, indeed. I wonder if there'll be a high school class reunion this year...I wonder if I'll go. r
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