All of these things are this

Indomitable:

-appetite for ice cream and lobster
-fog on the Maine coast
-G's ability to find wireless
-my desire to drive his car
-my conviction that the Mazda 5 wagon I want to buy is distinctly *not* minivanlike (in fact, it bears almost not resemblance whatsoever)
-my feeling that "The Sweetest Thing" is my favorite U2 song (playing now)
-certaintly that our B&B has the most unique sheets of any I've ever stayed in
-my quest for the perfect piece of jewelry
-belief that Don Gorvett makes gorgeous woodcuts and that I need to own one (see below)





We went by this place in New Castle en route to Portsmouth. It's now run by a Mariott but they maintained a lot of the original character in the renovation.

And then there's this one, which I'd love to own. This to me looks like an image of "indomitable":

I'm a snob

I just unearthed two of the Netflix DVDs that were lost in the shuffling of furniture I've been doing over the past few days. Okay, weeks. They are both from season four of The West Wing. I started watching last year, after I got inculcated to Aaron Sorkin by wathing Sports Night over a blissful two week period. The first few seasons of the Wing are great. Really great, as I guess every liberal in the country knew except me.

So now I'm trying to stick with the season that Aaron Sorkin didn't write, and I can't. It's lame. It's still better than most television shows, but it's sort of like trying to tell yourself that sleeping with the guy who reminds you of your ex boyfriend is still better than sleeping with most guys. Maybe it is, but that's still sad.

So I think I'm going to start watching Meadowlands. I noticed it on Showtime on Demand the other day, and a new acquaintance at the Dog Park mentioned being intrigued. This heralds a strange and hard-to-follow dose of anglophilia to counteract my Sorkin withdrawl. At least until Studio 60 comes out on video or comes off haitus.

Intrigue increasing

Okay so in reference to yesterday's post, I took another look at the post card, and I'm intrigued by the P.S.:



Doesn't look very troutey. And I'm an editor so of course the spelling "suprises" me. But a charming detail nonetheless.

I don't think I could say for sure that I had a favorite stream, trout or otherwise. I like the one we saw at Gavin's uncle's house in Mendocine County pretty well.

Making friends through incompetence

I got a nice post card from Martin and Vi today. I've never met or spoken with them. The only things I know about them are:

1) They live in New Hampshire (where I'm from). New Boston, I believe.
2) They pay taxes (although not all at once)
3) They have a favorite stream.

I guess, based on the post card, I also know that they have nice handwriting. I assume it's Martin's. (Is that sexist to think you can assume the gender of handwriting?) I was glad to get their note, because it means that they received what I sent:

Their IRS information.

Yup, all of it. Names, address, social security nos., amount paid, amount owed. You name it. Had it all at my fingertips because it was mailed to me inadvertently.

I get a monthly statement from the IRS (those of you who are also on an installment plan will know the document of which I speak) and last month, along with my own, I got Martin and Vi's. For reasons that I can only assume include:

1) The IRS is cutting corners and seeking to save money on postage an envelopes by mailing other people's info and figuring it's on us taxpayers to sort out who gets what.

2) Some rookie at the IRS went to the printer and grabbed two documents instead of one (now, we've all done this in places where we share printers, but after the first time you get back to your desk with someone's pages, don't you say to yourself, "oops. Next time I'll have to look at this stack of papers before walking away with them." And then invariably you walk back to the printer, only to find the rightful owner of the other document pressing printer buttons and looking confounded. Then you never make the mistake again. Right?)

Either way, not exactly killing us with competence and confidence-instillment.

So I mailed Martin and Vi their stuff, with a post-it saying I'd hope someone would do the same for me, and that it was the least I could do for fellow New Hampshirites. Signed my first initial and last name (all that would fit on the post-it), and put a return address on the envelope in case the thing got lost (again). That was about a month ago. And today: the postcard arrived.

With a lovely photo of a stream through the woods. Ooh I'll scan it and post the photo. Here you go. Apparently it's in Moose Brook in Hancock. Never heard of it. I'd like to go there.

(I supposed that were I more palmy I wouldn't have had this chance encounter--the ability to pay each year's tax bill in full eliminating the need for a monthly statement.)

Since I know people in New Boston (a close high school and college friend grew up there and her folks still live in the same house. I'm sure Martin and Viv live down the road). One of these days I'll see the Woodburys and will ask.

On a lost classic (and showing my gen-x-ism)

Last night I stayed in town after a satisfying and relatively short game of Scrabble with my friend Jane, and instead of heading back over to Jersey, which Nemo and I are doing more and more these days, I decided to stay in town and act like a single girl again. For me this usually means eating late night snacks in bed and then falling asleep watching some movie I always meant to get around to.

Instead there was no snack, and I decided to let Neemes up on the bed in honor of the holiday. (Unless Gavin gives in to my desire for a king, N is relegated to the floor indefinitely. The good news is that he's got a fancy new dog bed en route.) I flipped around the digital cable menu, since I have misplaced all of my netflix, and watched the scenes of Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Sex devoted to the fetish game show and the opening of the attack of the killer boob. Woody sure was random. I get it more than I did when I was in high school, though. Anyway I noticed that The Rules of Attraction was starting at 11, and at first I confused it with that Jennifer Aniston movie. What's that one called? When I saw it was an adaptation of a Brett Easton Ellis book, I was in.

Less Than Zero was one of the first movies I saw as a preteen that made me want to be urban and cool. Not to mention moneyed. There is also a decent amount of serious-seeming teen sex in it, which is sort of exciting when you are twelve and living in New Hampshire. I recall later finding out when I was in college that a ten year old neighbor who took care of our cat had sneaked herself my copy. I knew exactly why. That scene when Andrew McCarthy has sex with Jamie Gertz up against the wall by the pool is hot stuff when you're that age. Maybe it still is now...

So it turns out I have seen a few minutes of The Rules before: a 5-minute sequence about a rich American college student who jet sets around Europe, hooking up with models, dropping acid, staying in nice hotels, and going to cool clubs that I could never seem to find when I was there with my dorky friends from England. It's filmed like a documentary, edited together at a really furious pace in synch with the character's narration, so fast you can barely make out all that he's saying. It's brilliant and a disturbing portrait of spoiled American youth in the nineties. Empty, beautiful, powerful, and sick.

What I didn't know is that this little vignette came about two-thirds the way through the movie to introduce the character, who up until then was just a far-away boyfriend of one of the main characters.

It goes without saying that any Brett Easton Ellis movie (presumably this one was set at a fictionalized version of whatever elite college he went to outside New York City; Sarah Lawrence?) is full of beautiful, lying rich kids who do a lot of drugs and screw each other silly. It's pretty well cast with people you love to look at but probably haven't seen before. Unless I really am just that old and out of it. Even Dawson from the Creek is great as the shallow and hostile parasite of a drug dealer. Whenever he puts his head down and looks up from under that brow at whomever, it freaked me out. Good career choice for James Van Der Geek (or is it Beak?).

But the directing and editing of the movie are what set it apart. The opending sequences introduce the three main characters (evil Dawson, the off-center beauty named Lauren--whose clothes I loved, even now--and the most beautiful closeted gay boy I may have ever seen. Okay, he's not that closeted. He spends the whole movie trying to bed straight guys, though. What do you call that?) in this inverted and reversed way, and it all really hits the jugular in more ways than one. The music is great, too. I wonder if there's a soundtrack.

I also was *stunned* to see that Eric Stoltz had the audacity to play yet again the inappropriate and aging academic. This time a professor who is so disgustingly self-satisfied and sicophant-y that it's hard to believe he's playing it straight. This still does nothing to undo my love for him in Kicking and Screaming (a classic of the same general subject with a lot more heart and non of the BEE homocidal/suicidal mania).

I'm sure there are also other films in the BEE library I've missed or need to review. I think I'm going to netflix American Psycho. I miss Christian Bale.