Huh Day, Fibucetera 21, 40 A.B.

I watched Albert Brooks' "The Muse" yesterday.  Somebody please tell me how I feel about it.

I want to have liked it, but I'm not sure I do.  I liked the idea of it, and I kinda have always liked Albert Brooks, but I'm not sure that the idea "A screenwriter struggles with his Muse in present day Hollywood" was enough to hang a whole movie on.

I'm not sure why I like Albert Brooks, either, since he seems to be a man more known for being amusing than for actually being amusing, but I do.  I think it's because I look at him and think, "Now there's someone who's unlikely to ever beat the hell out of me even if given the chance."  I like, even admire that in a person - I really do.

And I can also say this for a fact: The many tennis balls on the tennis court in the tennis game scene kept moving around from one shot to another even though there was neither time nor reason for them to do so.  Obviously, whoever was in charge of continuity for this movie blew it.  Or was it done intentionally?  Was this a little inside joke?

Either way, I really liked it, if only because it made me feel so wonderfully observant.  In fact, I don't think I've felt quite this wonderfully observant since the time 10 years ago we got a sneak peek of the local porn channel and I figured out that the actors weren't really, really good self-mimics - the producers had simply resorted to running a tape loop of certain sequences.

Ten years is simply too long between peak experiences....

And not that it matters much, but I think the person in charge of continuity for my life might have been the one to work on "The Muse."  I feel oddly out of sequence.  Like things are moving around too fast and for no reason when they shouldn't be moving around at all....

My name sort of popped up in two other journals today.  Can you believe it?  I cannot.  I mean, it feels very odd to think that I might be having an impact on the minds and lives of others when I seem to have so little impact on my own.

Not that I can offer any proof of what I'm saying, of course.  Mentioning the names of these other journals would be the kiss of death for them, I'm afraid.  Actually linking would be akin to my eating the food off another's plate without asking.  They're probably just part of some odd dream I'm having, anyway.  More likely, I'm just a wispy, temporary figment in the dream of one of these two other journallers.

Maybe I'm merely your mind's way to remind you to roll over as you sleep?  Maybe I'm the little voice in the back of your head that tells you it's time to get up and pee?

I have no idea what my mind means or is trying to imply by saying that.  I really don't.

Phhft - I'm throwing up my hands here and just letting my sub-conscious take over.  It wants to write the rest of my entry, it can be my guest....

I'm worried about Arizona.  I saw a news report on last week which showed an Arizona park ranger (or someone like that) standing in a dry, Arizona-like area and saying, "We should be standing on 6' of snow right now" - and there wasn't a flake in sight.  When I go out back and tell the world what I should be standing on as opposed to what I really am standing on, it's not national news.  I guess it's different when you're an Arizona park ranger because people assume you know what you're talking about.  Maybe if I had a uniform....

What really got my attention, however, wasn't the park ranger but the sight of people having to use water sprinklers on their cacti.  We're talking D-R-Y, people.  S-P-O-O-K-Y D-R-Y.

And then today I read on the front page of my newspaper that the sun will probably expand and make today's Arizona look pretty darn good in just about 500 million years or so and the oceans boil away, and the atmosphere, too.

Leaving me now with a burning question: Do I give up movie watching, TV watching, or newspaper reading first as I try to cure my insomnia?

I am not a violent man.  I have never been a violent man.  I posted a picture of myself once.  Did I look like a violent man?  No.

So why do I have this irresistible urge to slap Ally McBeal silly?

No, I said that wrong.  Saying I want to slap her silly is like saying I want to slap a marshmallow soft or the night black.  The truth is, I just want to slap her, period.

Rear-ending the cars of cute guys just so she can meet them?  Dumping cups of coffee on the head of a guy repeatedly just because he's... what?  A guy?  A coffee shop counter person who turns out to own a chain of stores and is a judge in his spare time?  Rrrrright....

I think I have a few slaps in me for the writers, too.

But *I* was the one who watched, wasn't I, while Calistra Locklear and those writers were probably sitting around Albert Brooks' tennis court, chuckling it up over the stuff Ohio rubes will spend their time on.

Guess it's high time I went and slapped myself.

After all, they say a bit of exercise can help one sleep better, don't they?

We'll see....





P.S. - I love you all.  I really do.

Please don't beat me up....