I finally did the workshop critiques for this week. Some of them were bloody awful. I just can’t get over the vast difference in quality of work between gender. Men can just write a freaking story and not try to make it overly sentimental or erotic or shocking or Lord know what else girls do. Again, Dorothy Parker was right, “Dear God, let me write like a man.” They’re just so much better at this stuff. I even went as far as to email the one guy in my class with my response and told him how good it was. He write like the boys at UCF did. I miss that push and competition and influence they had on me. Eh, but those days are over I guess. Maybe now that I’m older I’ll find the kind of influence I need that doesn’t involve the college bullshit. (The drinking, pot smoking, I’m going to start a band, bullshit.)
Anyway, Fran call to say we should have dinner and see Becoming Jane in town. I guess her husband is gone for the day. (Football watching at his brother’s house is my first guess.) I left her a message on her cell but haven’t heard back yet. I was suggesting five to eat if the movie is at seven or so.
I need to finish watching The Paper Chase, take a shower, and maybe post (this?) to my blog. It’s only about three now. I love those 70s movies. The stories were more personal and intelligent. I use to watch them on Encore when I was just out of high school. I’m still searching for a couple of movies on Blockbuster Direct that I liked back then:
Diary of a Mad Housewife (1970)
Looking for Mr. Goodbar (1977)
An Unmarried Woman (1978) (Which I finally found a few months ago and saw again.)
Both were originally novels and turned into movies that have a very disco based soundtrack and lots of big poofy hair. They’re very Feminine Mystique and New York City based. Very Woody Allen-esque without Woody Allen.
Weird younger version of George Costanza neighbor continues to stand along my railing outside of my patio at random times and usually it’s when I randomly decide to go outside and smoke. Can you think of anything more annoying can do, dude? So there I am, watering the plants with a yellow T.G. Lee jug (I kept it to water the plants because the expiration date is my birthday), Camel “Menthe” No. 9 in hand, hair in some funny makeshift bun on top of my head, white night shirt that leaves nothing to the unfortunate imagination, and jumping out of my skin when some short little balding guy comes out at precisely the same time to stand in the breezeway, two feet away from me, to look out at the pond. I’ve called the front office before on him but apparently he doesn’t care. Laura says he’s doing it on purpose to see me in my nightie. Ick. I never say anything to him out loud, just verbally chastise him as I have to stamp out my cigarette and go inside to get away from George. The cat talks to him though. I wish he’d stop encouraging him like that.
But how can I stay mad at him? He looks so freaking cute sleeping here in the cubby of my desk as I type. I was going to take his picture to add to the post but woke up and followed me when I got up to get the camera.