The heat has broken all at once and it feels like fall. It's like summer took one look at the calendar, realized it was October, muttered "shit" under its breath and booked it to the Southern hemisphere, and it's all the sudden sweater weather. Well, not quite. It's nice enough that I drive with one arm out the window, enjoying the breeze and slapping the occasional biker.
I need a sweater. One from which my thrift-store shirt protrudes, and I need vanity Buddy Holly glasses and a kick in the nuts, 'cause tonight, we are feeling emo. The playlist is stocked with Getup Kids, the prognosis is not good. I could blame it on the sudden change in weather or the fact that I learned someone I've always been fond of capital-H hates me. I always suspected it, but confirmation is a bitch, and I ain't talking about the sacrament.
I hate these fucking mood swings. It'll all be forgotten tommorow after I'm off work and cleaning out my truck for the first time since I got it and picking up a girl to take her to a punk-rock show, but right now, we are basking in self-pity, even with the knowledge that given twelve hours I'll be back to my loud dopey self again.
Is there a psychological term for when you only want things until you get them? Terminal Gatsby-itis? I've got it. Don't let me have anything because I'll be instantly ungrateful. Leave me here with my fancy words and my ceaseless introspection until I learn to appreciate what I have.
Red Dragon is, by the way, a'ight. Not great, not even good, really, but definitely fun. Which is, in a way, too bad. Hannibal Lecter is too great a character to be wasted on movies that are merely okay. But it's got Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Edward Norton, who are always competing in my book for the title of Coolest Actor Ever. I had a good time. Plus Emily Watson plays a blind girl with all the right moves, and it has more Ralph Fiennes ass than any movie this fall, according to the film's website ("Ralph Fiennes' Ass: The Musical" comes out in December, thus it doesn't qualify for the fall Fiennes-buttocks season.) There have been worse serial killer movies. Like "The Cell." Or "Bridget Jone's Diary."
I owe a photo-essay on the Logik/Fourbanger show last Saturday. It'll be good, when it happens. Promise.