Se acabaron las tesis

well, that's all folks, it's over. Dave took me out for a lovely dinner at Plate on Tuesday night in celebration of the termination of CompLit, and I told him then, It's so anticlimactic. Not poetic, not lyrical, nothing. Maybe it just hasn't quite hit me yet; maybe it's that I'm too preoccupied with the nice weather and planning my [very] abbreviated summer. Or maybe I'm just weird.

I've felt the need to relax the past few days, after Monday's madness, the dismemberment of the thesis, and my three hour cookie break/Starbucks run 16 hours before my thesis was due. Whatever, fuck it. I was so exhausted with that damn thing that by the time 4:00 rolled around and it was time for class, I was a little *emotional.* I might have even started *crying* in class when Professor Schoenherr asked me why I looked to tired, and tried to explain Sedley's *motivational* statement that my thesis "had no point" on Sunday afternoon. Not so happy about that. Nope. Don't really want to talk to him for a while. Nope. Funny thing, his name is David. Ha.

So tonight's activity is in continuation with my "Cinema of Gambling" theme, in lieu of Class Night here at Haverford. I haven't attended a single Class Night, and I see no good reason to start now. Instead, I made a trip to Genuardi's for some fresh (mmm) baguette, middling quality sushi, and fresh strawberries (mmmm), and then headed out to TLA to rent some quality entertainment. Vacillating like nobody's business, I finally decided on "The Hustler" and "The Cooler" (last movie I watched for fun was "Rounders," as you can see, I'm on a kick). At the counter, a blonde girl walked her golden tanned self up next to me in perfectly un-wrinkled white linen pants, and a whispy-cute yellow tube top with a satin bow. Gag. Ick. Why do people have to look so *perfect* all the time. She asked for "Love Actually" and that made everything better. I mean, she may be hot, but at least she's got shitty taste in movies. As I left the store, I saw her pull out of the parking lot in a shiny lexus SUV. Hmm, and now *everything* makes sense.

I'm tired, and Paul is waiting for me by the pool table with my glass of red wine, so I'm outie.

"As I suspected! You're a rank sentamentalist.

Sadness! Someone has a blog called "absolute a," as I titled my journal in high school. Rather, mine was "absolut thea" but you get the picture. I guess I'm not as original as I thought.

In any case, I just felt the need to say that today was beautiful. And I mean multi-sensory, multi-layered metaphorically beautiful. Fridays usually kind of suck, being busy and stressful, and I'm usually too tired to enjoy life. Today, however, started off quite well indeed.

I showed up just barely on time to the English House at Bryn Mawr for my film class screening; this week: Casablanca. Now I know what you're all thinking, that "everybody loves Casablanca" and all that crap. So did I; in fact, I hadn't seen it all the way through until today.

There's a reason for all the hype.

It's so great, so beautifully filmed, so wonderfully acted, and the dialogue is nearly impeccable (although I STILL think that "here's looking at you kid" is stupid, cheesy, and non-sensical). It's the kind of movie that only an America in the midst of WWII could pull off, so weighty and *important* while being true to the heart of the Western soul. Fantastic.

Still high on life, I scooted off to the arboretum to have my aloe re-potted after class, and then it was on to the Farmers' Market, where I picked up a beautiful rockfish fillet and some fresh sourdough bread. Today was sunny, brisk, but cheerful, and the weather outside was screaming at me to leave the house, so I went for a deliciously mind-clearing run around Ardmore before my meeting with G. She was so busy that she didn't have time to really read through what I'd wrote, so I was saved from (most of her) criticism until Monday. Score.

Scurrying home, I fired up the oven to make myself an epicurean experience: pan-seared the striped bass once I put some spices on, broke out the last of the pinot grigio, and tossed the kale that I'd made last night in with a marsala pan sauce ready to be soaked up by chewy, cruncy sliced bread. Now, as I like to have some company when I'm dining alone in the apartment, I stuck in Ocean's 11, which I haven't seen in years, the memory of that night in the theater here in Philly with Mandi and my ex-friends from the customs group warming my sentimental little heart =).

Spinning, this time with delight...better than my other vertigo this week, the movie begins. Now, this is a guy's movie: bank heists, revenge, manly bonding, blowing things up and such, but damn, those guys look good. I swear, there are more good looking well dressed men in this flick than in 10 lame empty calorie movies with star billing. Sigh, Brad. Sigh, George. Sigh, Casey and Scott. Sigh, Matt. THEN, as I'm enjoying life on so many different levels, finishing off my coup in the kitchen with some nutella (again), I hear on the screen....

..."In all the gin joints in all the world..."

HA!!!! Proving, in one fell swoop, the intertexuality of movies, the validity of the filmic genre as art, and that Steven Soderbergh is indeed, a god. Shut UP, he was NOT just throwing in a random Casablanca quote. Can't you see it's so much *deeper* than that? Made my fucking day, man. Made my fucking day. I hope Klu gets back soon so that we can go enjoy another, though most likely less high quality cinematic event this evening. Yay for Fridays.

The Youth of America, or Is That What Kids are Calling It These Days?

The car has been towed. The paper has been handed in. The red food coloring is not far behind, and I'm using proper punctuation and capitalization rules again, so we're all happy.

So this weekend...

Three twentysomething girls set out in a car for the movies, after I'd finished about a 20 second shower, put on one black sock (my own possession) and one pink polka dotted-sock belonging to my gracious roommate but matching my hot pink shirt. Hell yeah. We arrived a mere five minutes late after sprinting through 200 yards of asphalt parking lot to arrive at the King of Prussia All-Stadium Cineplex, with probably 12 theaters. [read: this is no back-alley hole in the wall breeding ground for sketchiness. It's suburban Pennsylvania, for god's sake].

After tickets and popcorn, I was 12 bucks poorer, and we burst in the back door of the theater. The movie in question was "Win A Date With Tad Hamilton" [read: we didn't go to a fucking porn movie; it wasn't even rated R], and as it is quite the popular film these days, most of the seats were occupied. As the credits began to roll, we searched out seats in the dark, finding a nice half-empty row three rows back from the front of the theater, placing Topher Grace directly above our heads, distorted yet still *so* cute. Swoon. We note that there isn't much free space, and observe two high school aged youths scurry back and forth like rats in the second row, just in front of us. Did I say rats? I meant rabbits. "Oh, cute, they're gossiping with their little friends" we think, and smile indulgently. Several scenes later, I notice out of the corner of my eye that they're making out. Still finding this amusing, I lean over and mention to my moviegoing peers Kaitlyn and Liz what's going on one row in front of us, one aisle over. Movie continues, as does the make out session [read: dry humping] until we realize by degrees that not only has male adolescent removed his own shirt, but his female counterpart's corresponding outergarment. Are you kidding? Who takes their clothes off in a movie theater, and a crowded one at that? We cease to be amused.

Not only is this mildly disgusting in those nasty used movie seats, but the little twerp's skinny white chest was reflecting the glow from the movie screen into our eyes. This was not to be tolerated. Some sort of "hooking up" [read: partial exchange of bodily fluids] had been going on for full on 30 minutes when Liz suggested that a well-aimed projectile might instill a little dignity in them. I reach for the popcorn, but all we had left were crumbs. By now things had progressed to a point well beyond the standards of public decency [read: she was straddling him, I could see her bra from 20 yards, and more than half of his arm/head region was under her shirt] so the champion of moviegoers everywhere, Kaitlyn Luther, goes over at our request to tell them "Do you know that people can see you?" At least they put their clothing back on.

I've never made out in a movie theater, although I know a few perfectly respectable people who have engaged in said activity. I don't know what's wrong with the youth of America today, but in MY day, we sure as hell kept our pants on. And shirts. And shoes, generally speaking.

The remainder of the movie was quite enjoyable, although I'm a little ashamed to admit that a few tears were shed at the end. Hey, it was cute, give me a break. As we left for the car, Liz mused whether it was the movie that was so fun, or the drama that was played out in front of the screen. Art mirroring life, mirroring art? Yeah, or something Dada like that. The walk back to the station wagon was cold, I slipped on my ass getting in and have acquired a purple elbow (damn black ice), but well worth the overall experience of the evening. I [heart] self-righteous moralizing.

Good weekend =). I also made the best cylinder in class on Sunday, made my fucking day. And we just won't *talk* about Monday.

"Do we walk in legends, or on the green earth in daylight?"

Left Haverford's campus at 9:15 last night with a hardy crew of three other LOTR fanatics. Okay, 2 other fanatics, and the boy. Marni at the wheel, driving Boston-style down Montgomery Avenue, hot caffeinated beverages in hand, we arrived at King of Prussia in time to stake our claim to the first section of the seating line for the final installment of the Fellowship: Return of the King. People applauded when Orlando and Viggo had their first closeup. [Sigh.] I sat there with my iBook, typing away dilligently as news cameras panned the huge line that wound around the lobby. Even saw some hard-core costumed fans; one dubiously sober adolescent male was dressed as Sauron's eye, carrying a 4-foot long cardboard cut out colored orange. Well done.

3 hours and 25 minutes of pure Peter Jackson magic, even if there were some *serious* departures from the book (don't worry, I won't give anything away), and a perfectly acceptable ending. I'm not ashamed to say I was a little weepy towards the final scenes. I, too, felt as though something was over, a fellowship was ending; three years is a long time to be attached to a concept, and now it's over.

There's always the extended versions! Woo hoo, Two Towers dvd. I'm so bad.

And so, running on little sleep (we didn't pull in to the South Lot until 4:30 am this morning), but with visions of Minas Tirith dancing in my head as opposed to sugarplums, I trudge ahead on the last two assignments of the semester. Two days to go. So many things to bake, so many things to write. An aside: I enjoyed how they portrayed Frodo as the 'ultimate tortured writer' at the end. Everything's so intertextual these days, I love it.

I *still* think that Eowyn deserved more screen time, dammit.

"...and CUT!"

Over the past several days, I've found myself caught in several moments of cinematic irony or perfection, so much so that I keep waiting for someone to step out from behind the door or around the hall and tell me my scene's over. I have to stop looking upwards to see the fuzzy grey mic's suspended just out of the camera's range.

Act 1, Scene 1
Alex came to pick me up, like the good sister she is, on Tuesday. Spent the night and hung out with my crazy friends for a bit after we traversed Chinatown in the cold looking for stocking stuffers. We bought mom an anchor-shaped cookie ornament, in keeping with the eternal nautical theme of the past 4 years; long live the Mariners' Museum. Good times.

We hauled ourselves out of bed bright and early, and made the prerequisite stop at Dunkin' Donuts for breakfast. As we walk in the door, cameras are rolling...

...Three cops in uniform with large midsections tease the 'new guy,' clad in tight fitting pants and long-underwear shirt which accentuates formidable arm muscles and pecs. All of the law enforcement officers order donuts while relating the ocurrences of the past night's watch and intra-bureau gossip. Seasoned veterans indulge new pretty boy, brush powdered sugar off of their jackets, then pile into separate cars and head their own way down Lancaster Ave...

...cut to Scene 2
A pair of freckled blonde sisters on a road trip, racing through cold Thanksgiving air down country highways to meet the family. They catch up on the few months that they've been apart, interspersed with peals of laughter resulting from witty anecdotes of familial idiosyncracies. The younger one drifts off to sleep as Bonnie Raitt sings, the warm sun from the window too soporific for her to maintain consciousness.

Fade to black.

Scene 3
Family together at last, montage of 4 separate discussions of turkey cooking times, temperatures, and recipes. Reminiscence of Thanksgivings past....
Mom: Wasn't that when he was on the 10,000 calorie diet for swimming?
Sibling: I read that women need a minimum of 1800 calories to stay alive.
Mom: Well, Weight Watchers had us on 1000 a day, and you lost weight.
Sibling: Yeah, and how well did that work?
Mom: it worked fine, but...you get kind of hungry with only 1000 calories a day.

Family Friend: [aside, with a knowing smile] She has the gift, doesn't she?

Oh, for the gift of the obvious...cut to last dinner with group:

Scene 4
Dripping wet and disheveled, the sisters burst in the screen door with shopping bags and Spanish rioja. Dinner preparations begin, butter melted for garlic bread and pasta sauce bubbing happily on the stove while the assembled crowd breaks into small family groups enjoying a glass of wine before dinner. Three hours later, dinner finished, the "kids" (21-27) curled up on couches chatting, parents long gone to bed. Fade to black; End Act 1, 'Thanksgiving.'

Act 2, Scene 1
A early winter night in Phildadelphia, bare hands hold chilled gloved ones tight strolling through Rittenhouse square on the way to the movies. Colored light spheres dangle from leafless trees, brightly lit traffic whizzes by on all 4 sides of the square and every once in a while a gust of wind comes by to stir up leaves on the sidewalks or dislodge her scarf.

cut to Scene 2
Animatedly discussing the movie, the pair enters the warm, crowded bakery only to find no open tables. Her glasses fog and she laughs as she takes them off. He suggests takeout, and she agrees [pan the dessert case: chocolate ganache, 3 different buttercreams top glossy cakes], they leave hand in hand: one with a box stamped with "Pink Rose Pastry," the other with a hot cup of coffee. Steam curls up from the coffee cup as they cross 5th and Walnut, she looks around to check for camera crews, for the artifice that has to be hiding in the chilly shadows. Looks up at him, sips coffee, chuckles and says "it doesn't quite seem real." Fade to black

[male voice-over: "This is decidedly pleasant."]