Cate Blanchett makes a good Bob Dylan. Sounds like she mixes a great drink. One part raspy voice, two parts curly hair.

In I'm Not There, a movie I immediately fell in love with, there is a scene where she's sitting in the passenger seat of a car as it drives along the Thames in England, and waxing philosophic.

And then she just stops talking, and slowly smiles right at the camera. It's these moments that I die inside. Yes, like a middle school girl wearing dark green knee-high socks and plaid, I die inside and feel full and empty all at once.

A similar moment can be found watching American Beauty where Kevin Spacey slowly smiles and you can just see years fall off his shoulders very near the end. Gets me every time.

I've never been a hat person. Or a sunglasses person.
I'm not really a shoe person, either.

And I've never been a cat person. Nor a dog person.
I guess I'm a bird and fish person. Though the fish are dead.

I'm definitely not a cranberry sauce at Thanksgiving man. I'm more of an I'll take broccoli and cheese casserole guy.

I'm not an air quotes person. But I do cup my hands when I'm explaining something that goes in parentheses. Is there an air italics person?

And I'm glad I can't be a pigeon lady. Well, not without a couple thousand dollars and time for surgery, at least.

What to Expect When You're Expecting

Pain.

I saw in the newspaper

that a person had the first name of "Graig"

What a silly name.

So tired. So very tired.

People in my living room are watching Kill Bill 2, which I've come to realize is not that good a movie, and actually grows annoying over time.

You were lucky back in the day, Tarantino. Lucky.

While I'm talking about movies--
No Country for Old Men is a good movie, and if you don't like the ending, well you can just talk to the hand.

p.s. That is, indeed, my hand.
p.s.s. If anyone I know gets that tattooed to their hand, I will officially unknow them, free of charge.

Hunting Bison

Recent train of thought:
Thanksgiving: Indians: Indian Guides: Dad

If you don't know what an Indian Guide is-- it's a lazy man's Boy Scouts with a Native American motif. They are now called "Adventure Guides" for political correctness.

Thanksgiving always makes me think about Indians in this light, not in the apologetic light they deserve. I was "Running Wolf." Dad was "Running Bear."

But, I think back and remember trips and missions to earn feathers. Trips to get to better know my friends, my dad. I remember standing sideways and shooting arrows at round targets.

It was a time before relationships.
Before acne and deodorant and trying to impress others. And reading between lines in what others say and finding myself cynical and misanthropic. Before e-mail and text message.

I think about this time on Thanksgiving; Dad and I are standing, facing imaginary buffalo, shooting targets. There is nothing else to think about.

Dear G

You cross the busy street, with cars rambling by, and you are the only one dodging them. Twelve other people are waiting for the light down the road to change, so they can cross in safety. But you, no Greg, you are daring. You are bold. This is the most daring thing you will do in three weeks, and you do it daily.

You have slain a dragon. You have rescued a litter of cats from a tree growing on top of a burning building. What a scenario, Hero.

Now go, make your family proud, and riskily cross every street you come across, dear Greg.

I'm pretty sure I cannot get enough Radiohead.

They did a funky, really long webcast. In this segment, it makes me wish I had a camera strapped to my head.

What in the world will happen if Barry Bonds goes to jail?

Baseball is the one sport I take seriously. I played for 11 years. I made the high school team once, so I'm what you might call an expert.

If Barry Bonds does go to jail (and please, he can't really be going for 30 years), I think I'll have to grow a mustache in memorial.

To remember the good ol' days. Before lying, and hitting homeruns at an illegal rate.

When he gets out, assuming he does go to jail, I'm sure WWE will hire him.

My roommates, suitemates, apartment-partners have each contracted colds. Yes, contracted. Sign on the dotted line and you too can lose any ability to breathe through your nose.

I'm going to start taking a regimen of Flintstone Vitamins. This is what the color purple tastes like.


Also, you really have no idea what sounds the human body can make until you're surrounded by those with illness. It's much worse than listening to people slurping cereal or soup off of their spoons. Trust me.

I almost forgot I had a blog.

My bad. My mistake. Mea culpa.

Veterans' Day

We were Methodists. The church interior was always cold.

Just after the offering was taken up, Pastor Harrington would call all the children forward and give a short children's sermon. I sat on the altar steps with children I didn’t know.

Some of the elder ladies had American flag pins on their jackets.

The pastor held a microphone just under his double chin. “Do any of you know what a veteran is? It’s especially important on this fine day.”

I slid a little toward him in my green sweater and raised my hand.

“Thank you, Son. What do you think a veteran is?”

He held the microphone down to my nose. I was not his child.
“I think, it’s, uh, a person that fixes animals.”

The congregation began laughing all around. I looked out to see my parents’ faces. Where were they? Were they laughing too?

Pastor Harrington had a huge smile and went on to explain Veterans' Day. I chewed on my nails and picked at the short carpet.

The Question of the Ages

What do I do with a sweatshirt when it is no longer cold out?
I know these are both just bad, and can send the wrong signals.









I also know it's never good to hold the sweatshirt like I just killed someone with it. That's never good, either.

I liked American Gangster

with its portly Russell Crowe

and Denzel Washington uttering "My man.." as if it were a tick.

I don't know how to feel about Denzel buying the real Frank Lucas a Rolls Royce after making the movie though.

Fall Back

There's a chunk missing from the top leather surface of my sandals. Terrorists have finally struck home for me.

My dad holds that calling Terrorists "Terrorists" only empowers them. I agree, nod my head over the phone.

I would have taken a picture to show you the mass destruction, but my camera is dead.
I'm going to start measuring my life in battery lives.

Tres

Britney has really let herself go, bitch.