Reading: Marion Zimmer Bradley, The Mists of Avalon; although officially Iris Murdoch, Under the Net

Moving: biked 5 miles

Listening: Graceland

16 July 2001: Heat, movies, and books

It is so beautiful today. This morning I heard someone say to a visitor from Seattle that last week you couldn't distinguish Denver from Seattle, which complaint was a little farfetched. We had beautiful beautiful monsoon storms almost every afternoon. Okay, maybe I couldn't swim Thursday afternoon because of rain, but they were still beautiful. Of course, the Seattle person said that it's been 75 and sunny there. Last week's weather was wonderful; today's and this week's forecast is beautiful if less suited to vigorous activity. I walked to the Tattered Cover at lunch, to the Market Deli for lunch, and part of the way back before giving up and hopping on the shuttle. Heat like this--it's in the mid 90s--makes me languorous, sometimes in a good, oiling-my-joints kind of way, but sometimes in a brain-melting, slow-motion kind of way.

I left the building with Coolboss and she asked where I was going. I told her the Tattered Cover, because I am seeing Nick Hornby at the end of this week and want to have read more than one short story and the introduction to the story collection before then. I asked if she had seen "High Fidelity" and she had, so I explained Hornby is the author of the book upon which it's based. (PLT rightly said I would love "High Fidelity" because of Lists of Five, retrospection, and the making of mix tapes, but I didn't go into that with CoolBoss.) From there we got to John Cusack. She's seen the trailers for "Serendipity" (a new Cusack movie) and thinks it's going to be stupid. Yep, it does, but I saw it tacked onto "Bridget Jones's Diary," so I was clearly in the mood for a chick flick when I saw it. She didn't like that either, thought it wouldn't've made sense without the book. We've both seen trailers for "America's Sweethearts" and have no hope for it. I said, "I like Julia Roberts, but her with John Cusack just doesn't work." She doesn't like Julia Roberts. I confessed, "You know, I liked 'Notting Hill.'" She told me she wouldn't say that very loudly if she were I. "I didn't like 'My Best Friend's Wedding,' if that's any help," digging myself in deeper, "though I did actually see it." This obviously wasn't helping. Then it came out that she doesn't like Hugh Grant, which explains both "Bridget Jones" and "Notting Hill." If you don't like "Four Weddings and a Funeral" because of Hugh Grant instead of because of Andie McDowell, I can't help you.

But I understand about not wanting to associate with me anymore because of Julia.

At the lake with my sister, we were talking movies too. I had just seen "Oscar and Lucinda" and told her how it reaffirmed my love for Cate Blanchett and compounded my dislike of Ralph Fiennes.
CLH asked if I had seen "Conspiracy" with the latter.
"About the Nazis plotting the final solution? Ralph Fiennes was a Nazi in 'Schindler's List,' but the lieutenant in 'Conspiracy' was some other actor."
"No, no," she said, "Ralph Fiennes was the head Nazi in 'Conspiracy.'"
"That was Kenneth Branagh!" I ejaculated. She slapped her forehead, but I railed at her, "You can't confuse Ralph Fiennes with Kenneth Branagh! Ralph is a burned-up [English Patient], pot-bellied* [Schindler's List], badly-dyed excuse for a Heathcliff [Wuthering Heights] wanker [Oscar and Lucinda], and Kenneth is Henry V and Hamlet and was in 'Peter's Friends'! I'm not related to you any more!" and I huffed a couple of inches away on my towel.

The same thing happened to me when Haitch and I were walking through the theatre on the way to "Moulin Rouge" and we saw promotional material for "America's Sweethearts." I said I wasn't going to be ashamed of liking Julia Roberts anymore, even though I wouldn't like that movie (that bad pairing means that maybe not even the eye-candy factor of Catherine Zeta-Jones will soothe me). Hearing me repeat that I like Julia Roberts, in public and in her company, immediately Haitch began increasing the distance between us. We were on an up escalator, and I believe she turned around and headed down.

* I might not mind the pot belly in "Schindler's List" if whatshername from "Pulp Fiction" hadn't made me hate any character with pot-belly aspirations. Also Oscar isn't a wanker though he might be more tolerable if he were.

Anyway. At the Tattered Cover I picked up About a Boy but not High Fidelity because however much I liked that movie and John Cusack, I don't buy books with movie covers. Also a book for CLH's stocking (since she's started to do mine). Also the first Lemony Snicket book, since the library seems unaware that they exist. Also a card for my father, which won't arrive in time for his birthday. I am a Bad Daughter.

Last week CLH informed me she's begun working on my stocking. I remembered to ask her about my Snowy keychain, which I never retrieved from her bag.
"You weren't supposed to remember about that," she told me.
Aha. "Oh. Sorry. What was I talking about again?"
She actually said, "Your Snowy keychain..." before she realized that she was reminding me about something I was agreeing to forget about it. One of those moments. I love my sister.

So back to the brain-melting heat. The Tattered Cover and the Market Deli were both air-conditioned within an inch of my life, so perhaps it was the contrast after being chilled in them and then strolling on the baking sidewalk that made me nearly fall asleep on my way back and want the shuttle.

I did nearly finish A Bad Beginning walking and eating and walking and riding, and now I wish I'd bought the other five. Except I have to finish About a Boy before Friday. Also I should check Capitol Hill Books for High Fidelity or give up on getting Hornby to sign what will probably be my favorite of his books. I wouldn't want him to know I read it after I saw the movie, since he'll care so much about my reading habits.

I expect I'll like About a Boy more than Under the Net, which I just started this morning, so I'm glad to avoid Iris Murdoch for a couple of days. I think A Handful of Dust has poisoned me for Brit books of that period. The narrator reminds me of the paramour in Handful, which is a Bad Beginning indeed.