I confess that I have initiated operation woodpecker lockout. I didn’t really give it a name, but it’s getting pretty real around here nonetheless. I have previously confessed my fear of heights. (Technically, I’m not afraid of heights I’m afraid of falling. And not so much falling as hitting the ground at a high rate of speed and breaking something. And not even so much breaking something as just general pain. So I guess I’m afraid of pain & that’s my excuse for why I haven’t gotten on top of a ladder and fixed the problem before now. I figure as long as I’m forcing myself to wet my pants, I might as well change a high-up lightbulb and clean the gutters. Anybody want to hold the ladder for me? Bring a raincoat…)
As it turns out I really am afraid of heights, because I nearly have a coronary every time I climb up the 30 foot extension ladder I’m using. I managed to tape some paper over the holes, not enough to really keep a bird in or out, but enough to know if there’s still something living in there. Nothing was disturbed after 24 hours, except for me at the prospect of getting up there to check. So I nailed a patch over the hole and sealed it with silicon caulking. As soon as I prime it I can move the ladder around to the other side of the chimney in order to patch the hole on the other side–If I have not had some sort of nervous episode, that is. I did manage to clean the gutters last week as well, although I realized last night that I neglected one short section at the back of the house. I’ll be attempting to clean it this week.
I confess that I am powerless against a brownie sundae. Seriously, I could have them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and be happy.
I confess that I am a chronic Googler (which sounds naughty). I’ve noticed that I no longer have the patience to just wonder about something–the name of the actress from that movie, the name of the song I just heard, who did this, where was that person from, what year did this happen?–I have lost the ability to not know facts (trivia really), if at all possible. I have to look things up immediately. I’m not sure this is healthy. It feels like a nearly a compulsive reaction to anything unknown.
I confess that we went to a couple of movies last week while the kids were with the grandparents. We saw Chef, which was pretty good. It’s actually not a bad story, and Jon Favreau (yes, I had to Google his name), does a brilliant job. I generally think that writing, directing, and starring in a movie is not the best idea. It seems to insulate the creative team from the kind of important self-critique that is essential to making a good film. Favreau pulls it off, though. He’s really good in this film, and he clearly knows how to make a movie. There were a lot of A-list stars for an indie film (Roberty Downey Jr., Scarlett Johanssen, Sofia Vergara, Dustin Hoffman, Oliver Platt, John Leguizamo), which made me think that Favreau must really be a nice guy. I’m guessing nobody got their normal fee.
We also saw The Immigrant, and I was blown away by this film. The turn of the century period is one of my favorites to study. The first book I ever wrote dealt heavily with Walter Rauschenbusch, who was a pastor in Hell’s Kitchen during that time. I’m fascinated by how our society functioned back then, at least in part because I think we are headed toward a similar situation again. This film is so irresistibly sad and beautiful. It’s dark like The Godfather–like the whole movie was shot with a sepia tone effect–and the plot is crushing. But the film is a redemptive experience on the whole. Joaquin Phoenix is a freak. He played a perfect manipulating villain. I don’t know how he did it. I mean I hated him, but I didn’t quite hate him. He was so horrible, but terribly human at the same time. Marion Cotilliard was simply stunning the entire time. I want to watch it again.
Okay friends, I’ve made my confession. Now it’s time for you to make yours:
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