Courtesy of the Cinemark Movie Theater in White City, I fell backwards in time. I could do a bit of research to pinpoint the date but it's not necessary. Rosy neon seen now, I suspect, only in bordellos, warmed the lobby and some vague memory.
The matinée of No Country for Old Men, the Coen Brothers latest film featured not only an old fashioned matinée time limit, 6pm, but the price for the matinée was $2.50. Yes, that's $2.50 American. With pricing like that, I felt duty bound to purchase the largest snack portions I could stomach. With bountiful Mediums purchased, the entire bill was under $10.
No Country was set in 1980, just about the era of the White City ("A Great Place to Live") Cinemark. White City (have I mentioned that it's a great place to live?) rose out of nothing in 1941 as Camp White where over 100,000 soldiers were trained for WWII. German P.O.W.s were housed there as well. Much better than being executed.
Sorry about the history lesson, that's the damn internet's fault.
This was the first film I've seen since I've moved to Medford and what a pleasant, competent surprise. Now that I know that watching a movie is cheap, I'll see more films, crappy and otherwise, than I've seen for years. Medford 1, Modernity 0.
Don't panic! I'm not tied to the whiskey post, or anything harmful or bluesy like that.
I wanted to take advantage of the many whiskeys I had tonight and write a bit while loose and disconnected. Not as stunning an experience as when I first dropped acid and wrote revelatory prose which, it turned out, saved the world. The whiskey infusion happened as I listened to a colleague's band, Red X.
One of the best things about the evening was that I got to stagger home from the event because they played tonight at the Hungry Woodsman, a few blocks from me. No shit. Well, technically, they're playing at the Buzz Saw Saloon, a subsidiary of HW, Inc. I was mightily tempted to purchase t-shirts and send them to my friends and family, all three of you who find yourself immersed in my life.
Rob, the colleague, is the guitarist for the band. He has a terrific, gymnastic mind and is quirky in the best way. Great to have him around. The trio, not surprisingly, brings a healthy sense of irony to their gigs. Based on one listen, they're at their best when they mix styles. For instance, they shredded a version of Play that Funky Music, White Fellow, that rocked (insert the devil horn sign here)! Always fun to go out an listen to tunes.
At one point, a nice young woman came to my table and asked me to dance. Well, of course. So I let thoughts about simple harmonic motion guide my legs as the song (Stray Cat's Strut) played and had a lovely dance from the not young, but no where near as old as me, woman. Let's face it, I am old and I will not be chasing those who are 15 years younger than me. Just a sweet, disconcerting moment in my funny little life.
***
Often, I have found that apartments too much resemble a hotel through the magic of whiskey eyes. Thankfully, that wasn't the case tonight. I don't think I would have enjoyed that much. When I came home, I quickly stripped, threw every swatch into the washer and jumped into the shower. I will be very happy when the smoking ban in 2009 takes effect. After toweling off, I immediately fired up the 'puter to communicate to you that, I drank, I listened, I danced and I showered. Thank God for blogging.
Sorry about the lack of writing, that will change now that I've gotten through the demands of the holidays at my newish job. My focus has been myopic but that can now change a bit. Maybe biopic or triopic. Cool, third eye!
For those of you keeping count, my little family consists of two guitars now. One created for electrical outages, one to increase my carbon footprint. The new, manually powered model is silly as you can see but it's a real Gretsch and sounds and plays great. I don't trust my word on this but my colleagues who really love playing these cheap little fellows. Thank you special discount!
In all fairness, it does make real guitar sounds when others play it. So far, it dutifully spells out whatever sounds I attempt. The real guitar sounds are just around the corner. I can feel it! By the way, a square little plastic man named Korg keeps my guitar tuned. One eye glares red at me until I find an acceptable note. Then the other turns green. Kind of like David Bowie. What a funny job.
The packaging is just as silly as the guitar itself. The idea of learning how to play the guitar without learning attracted me, as you might suspect.
It's been a funny month. Kinda like reverse, first and overdrive were the only gears I used. Did I mention Park? A lot of Park. No great thoughts to be found here. Just a little notice that I still exist, that I'm not yet a threat to take food out of any gigging guitarist's mouth and that I've been working on a novel. You know, everyday life.
