Twisted Spinster

…but first earlier today my site was down for a bit (server issues), I had to go to a job interview — which I did not find, because God forbid that Orlando put address numbers on the office buildings scattered haphazardly in the twisty, tub-of-live-bait nightmare that are the streets here, so after driving around swearing at the insane people I have to share the streets with (stopping at stop signs is optional — you are allowed to let your car roll halfway into the street so people in the right lane can smash into you or swerve around you and smash into cars the next lane over; it’s fun for the whole family! like a bargain ride sponsored by Universal Studios or something) I came home to thunder and rain, so I disconnected the cable until that was over. (I have already sacrificed one computer to lightning hitting an unprotected cable installation; I’m not sacrificing another.)

Oh, and I bruised the bottom of my left foot on the corner of one of the plastic crates holding my godforsaken record albums, and then whilst chasing a mosquito around the bathroom I bent my right ring finger backwards on the shower curtain rod and now it’s killing me. So I may not be typing much tonight. (I still have lots of thank you emails to send — I’ll get them out as soon as I can.)

Update, later: okay, here comes the thunder again, so it’s time to shut down. I’ve been slogging through Bright Young Things — the movie, not the book — and I must say I can’t really seem to get involved in the stories of the characters. Perhaps it’s because either the filmmakers or the author of the original novel (which I have not read) seem to detest just about everyone with the possible exception of the main guy’s lady-love (though she comes off as both stupid and selfish) and her canny father, played by Peter O’Toole, who is smart enough not to give his wayward child and her blank-personalitied beau any money. So far the only time I’ve had sympathy for anyone is when the Agatha character, normally a “daring” pseudo-lesbian (for the time), seems genuinely shocked that the pad she was invited to crash at after a coke-and-jazz party turned out to be No. 10 Downing Street, but then her character snaps back into useless upper-class-twitdom. I must admit I rented this movie out because David Tennant is in it — he plays the part of what is supposed to be a dull, common fellow, I guess, though compared to the shallow rich creatures he’s surrounded with he comes off as rather superior. I’m thinking, though, that Evelyn Waugh’s sort of broad, cruel farce has had its day, despite the superficial resemblance to our own rich, shallow celebrity culture. At least the rich bitches of yore had a solid base to both rebel and be criticized against. At least the pre-WW2 generation knew who Croesus was. Today what do the Paris Hiltonites have — mocking their parents for watching Eight Is Enough when they were kids?