So, just to cast my vote: when they start divvying up nouveau WPA jobs in the next couple years, I would like to be doing murals, printmaking or design. ( I don't want to be immodest, but suddenly the trajectory of my GenX life is making sense.) And I will have somewhere to channel my constant desire to create/decorate/paint every bit of my own architecture folly for a while until I can afford a place to play with. I actually have a great aunt, with the same two first names as I, who was an artist and did dozens of WPA murals around Chicago, especially in the public schools. Perhaps the whole thing is sort of inevitable. Either that, or I shall restart/join the Roycrofters.
Hilarious fact from most recent Cooks Illustrated: If you run cheap vodka through a Brita, it does a decent job of filtering it; up-marketing the flavors, bringing it closer to high-end stuff. Party on. Store some on your fridge door now.
Last night TCM tried to raise America's spirits with a late night showing of...Roller Boogie (1979). All I can say is...where has this been all my life? It's a two-hour paean to (Linda Blair in tiny clothes, the Dry Look and) the 70s dictum of Not Matte. SHINY AT ALL COSTS. Everything. Totally fabulous, down to the token homeboy rollerskater and the effeminate twirling, jumping roller-skating leading man. Tonight TCM's showing Hud, which I plan on watching if I'm around in a miasma of horny sadness. Errrrr.
Sexdrive = The Sure Thing?
This week was really kind of ass. Awakening yesterday to the sight of W trying to reassure, even as numbers fell around him like the dying embers of fireworks, made it feel just a little too much like 9/11. BAD WEEK.