drunkencynic's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- maladroit I just watched Chicago again. Yes, I'm still sick. Poor me. My dad bought the DVD and is 'lending' it to me. He says he bought it for me, but Michelle sort of took it over. "Just give it back someday," he said, whispering. I've been holding out on buying it. I don't know why. I was all over it when I first saw it, it was one of my new favorite movies. But I think I'm comparing it to Hedwig. And nothing compares to Hedwig. I got to watch the special features, though, which was interesting. It was so funny, all of the leads trying really hard to say nice things about the other, "Wow, we didn't know he/she could sing and dance!" What a shocker! Just because they can carry a tune, just because they're competent at it does not mean they can sing and dance. Urgh. It just annoys me that everyone went around saying how perfect the leads were, and wasn't it a surprise- we were going to put them in the movie anyway of course because they rake in money, but wasn't it lucky for us that they were competent singers and dancers too? I mean, come on, if they'd gone blindfolded into any Broadway audition they could have randomly picked someone who'd knock the socks off of those three. In the behind the scenes featurette, you see them in the rehearsal room, singing their heart out, and you can barely hear them! No wonder they moved to movies...they couldn't cut it on stage! I'm sorry. I'll calm down now. That sort of thing just gets my ire up. Popcorn has been its own food group in my family for as long as I can remember. Lunch and dinner have frequently consisted of popcorn. Not any greasy, bag-popped microwaveable popcorn, no, the air-popped kind. Much classier. And as I was making some for my dinner tonight, I realized something. The way I like my butter prepared is no accident. I like my butter slightly burned, so that the teeny-tiny little brown spots cling to the popcorn when you pour it on. I won't make it any other way. Why? Because, my friends, I have inherited my mother's fabulous cooking skills. That's the way she'd make it for me, only hers was not a gourmet matter, hers was accidental. Nowadays she crows with glee when I leave the stove on accidentally, and I roll my eyes and protest that her genes are just too strong to resist. Our phone has mysteriously broken down. I broke one handset by accidentally knocking into the bath (boy, I'm a graceful one, aren't I) one night while waiting for some phone call. And now the holdout's surrendered. So we're using my old phone. The one that got taken away because Milo and I talked too much on it. Late at night. Early in the morning. All day long. So now every time the phone rings I jump up, my heart pounding. That particular ring is hardwired to my adrenaline. It's an Ivan Pavlov-ic response. "Milo!" Ah well. 7:46 p.m. - 2003-10-21 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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