Bye Bye Brasil

I dreamed last night I'd written the perfect novel. Sex, drugs, quirky dialogue, badly timed epiphanies all plot-driven – see, there's this circus… The performers are Russian, Mexican, Kenyan and Chinese; they travel around the American heartland having various experiences, surreal to them but mundane to us (in much the same way that Humbert Humbert described the American motel scene in the 1950's which are the most brilliant passages of Lolita, an altogether brilliant book.)

It had a great title. I promptly forgot that title the moment I woke up.

Now I want to see Bye Bye Brasil again since I'm fairly sure that's where my subconscious stole the plot.

Sadly, Bye Bye Brasil is one of those movies that is too obscure to make it on to DVD. The three extant prints are probably rotting quietly in some warehouse in San Paulo.

Not that I have the time to write anything.

Terrible week at the store. The AT&T Pro Am is a bigger bust this year than it was last. Golfers do not like hot sauce.

Next week is the President's Day Weekend, the official start of the retail season. If it doesn't rain, we should do well. Though it made me physically sick to do the necessary buying to stock the store for the projected consumer onslaught. I don't want to spend my capital. I want to put all my capital in a big sack and sit on it, feel the warmth put out by radiant C notes permeating my buns. Maybe wiggle provocatively on the lumpy stacks of bills, get Ben to videotape me, Photoshop in Paris Hilton's head. Put the resulting video on perpetual loop in my office so I can watch it while I'm paying – or not paying – my bills.