I spotted the following sign on top of a Salt Lake City taxi cab as I walked from the train station to work on Friday morning:
So Jon Stewart is going to host the Academy Awards this year. I think that’s great. Really, it’s just wonderful. I’ve got two questions, though… who the hell is Jon Stewart and what has he got to do with the movies?
[Ed. note: if you’re squeamish about harsh language, be wary. F-bombs and other nastiness follows.]
Last night, right around the time I was posting the previous entry, I was startled by a sudden noise at my bedroom window. It was sort of like that sickening whump you hear when a bird ends its life against a pane of glass, but it also had a tinkling quality to it. The sound of something breaking.
For a brief, confused moment, I thought something had fallen inside the house, that a delicate knick-knack had somehow slipped off a shelf or something. But then I realized that my first impression was correct; something had hit the window. And I had a pretty good idea of what it must’ve been, too… you don’t usually get birds flying around at 11.30 at night, and I haven’t seen a bat around my neighborhood in years.
Seeing the recent movie Good Night, and Good Luck sparked my curiosity about the legendary newsman Ed Murrow, so I’ve been reading a book by former NPR host Bob Edwards called Edward R. Murrow and the Birth of Broadcast Journalism. It’s a short little volume, less an in-depth biography than a concise overview of Murrow’s life and philosophies. Sparse as it is, though, the book provides plenty to think about. Consider, for instance, the following passage:
It was back to the grind for me this morning. Fortunately, it hasn’t been too grindy as of yet; everyone around my office seems to be taking their own sweet time to start up the assembly line again, which is fine by me. It’s a funny thing — even though it’s been years since I last worked at the movie theater, whenever I have an extended period of time off my body clock always seems to revert to the hours I used to keep as a projectionist. This means that during the week between Christmas and New Year’s, I started staying up until 2 AM and sleeping until 10. Which means that I only managed about four-and-a-half hours of sleep last night, and I’m probably not going to be much good as a proofreader today.
Slow workday or not, I am rather bummed that my holiday vacation is already over. I had a lot of things I wanted to accomplish during that time, and I only managed to do about five percent of them. C’est la vie, I suppose, but it’s frustrating to look back on some eleven days of free time — the most precious commodity our overscheduled society currently enjoys — and not have much to show for it. At least I managed to finish Stephen King’s gargantuan magnum opus, The Dark Tower series, which, as I now recall, was one of my goals for the year.
That’s not a terribly good segueway into my annual recap of the previous year’s media consumption, but it’s the best I’m probably going to manage today. As I said, I’m running on only about four-and-a-half hours of sleep…
I forgot to mention something kind of funny that happened yesterday while I was at Media Play. I was browsing the largely denuded DVD racks, looking for anything that might be worth buying, when I spotted a little film that brought back a lot of memories, an obscure B-picture from the early ’90s called Robot Jox. (“Two men! Two machines! Too wild!”) I reached for it with one hand, while turning my head to speak to The Girlfriend. “Hey, honey,” I said, “Look at this. I ran this movie when I was a projectionist at Movies 9. It only played for a week or so, and I think I was the only person who ever actually watched it.”
Suddenly, a voice said, “Yes, I think you probably were.” It turned out the guy standing next to me with his arms full of clearance-priced DVDs was none other than my former movie-theater boss, Cal Gunderson. Small valley, eh? I still see Cal from time to time — he manages the Megaplex at Jordan Commons for local magnate Larry H. Miller now — but it’s been a while since our last encounter. I’ve been lucky enough to have had a number of good bosses over the years, managers who would go to bat for you when you need someone on your side, folks who are friends as well as supervisors and who know when to draw the line between the two, but Cal was one of the best I’ve known. Every time I see him, I feel like I ought to say more to him than I do, to thank him for something, although for what I’m never quite sure. I get the impression he doesn’t recall my name anymore, but I am greatly pleased that he still knows my face and recalls my somewhat questionable — or at the very least eclectic — taste in movies. After all, it’s been about fifteen years since I worked for him. But then he probably hasn’t had many employees who actually see, let alone kind of like, movies like Robot Jox.
I probably should’ve bought that DVD while I had it in my hand…
You know, for all the build-up the holiday season receives, it certainly always seems to end on an abrupt note. Think about it — for weeks and weeks and weeks, people are decorating, shopping, cooking, and otherwise preparing, and then, come New Year’s Eve, it all ends in just a matter of seconds. The clock strikes twelve, the ball drops, somebody kisses Dick Clark, and it’s all over with. If you’re lucky enough to be at a good party, the festivities may continue for a couple of hours, but that’s just inertia and wishful thinking, right? The genuine propulsive energy of the season all evaporates at midnight and, come first light, the tinsel looks as outdated as muttonchop sideburns. I don’t know about you guys out there in the InternetLand, but the end of the holidays strikes me as a huge anti-climax.
Not that I’m especially bummed to see the holiday season end this year. As I mentioned the other day, I’ve had a hard time catching the Christmas Spirit this year. Even though I sound like a colossal grinch for saying so, it really is a relief to have it finished for another eleven months. Still… I will miss the lights. I always do when the Christmas season ends. I love driving around and seeing all the houses and trees and lampposts wrapped and illuminated by strands of red, blue, and green bulbs. It makes everything seem… quaint. And it makes me a little sad when those lights aren’t there anymore. There’s always a few die-hards, of course, who leave their lights burning until March or April, but the overall effect will be drastically diminished by tomorrow night. Sigh…