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This Too Shall Pass
Dec. 18th, 2023 01:04 pmSo, I missed whatever the magic date was for making reservations in the actual path of the eclipse.
Had to scramble last night to nab an Airbnb in Ithaca.
Two hours south of the eclipse path. A doable drive, yes? Plus, I can pick a watchpoint in the high country, somewhere bucolic, where I can hear the chittering of the insects and the birds gradually ebb and watch the shadow bands begin their dance as the Celestial Dragon takes that first tasty bite of Sun. Much better than watching the eclipse from the sidewalk outside a motel in Rochester, Buffalo, or Syracuse.
I nabbed an Airbnb much bigger than I needed.
That way, I can extend an invitation to friends and relatives who forgot to plan and realize too late, But-but-but I won’t be alive in 2044 for the next eclipse!
###
What else?
I saw Maestro in a movie theater.
I tried to write something pithy & intelligent about it.
I failed.
Maestro isn’t a bad movie exactly; it’s just an utterly pointless movie. It focuses on Leonard Bernstein’s marriage, which in the quaint argot of the early Jurassic was a lavender marriage: As portrayed by Bradley-Cooper-the-actor, Leonard Bernstein was as gay as those 12 lords a-leaping through that Christmas carol. Bernstein’s marriage to a vagina-person would be confusing, except (the movie beats us over the head to make clear) it’s not——because Leonard Bernstein & his wife were soulmates—
It’s the fault of the script. The script sprawls over a 30-year period; the better to let Bradley-Cooper-the-director do all sorts of chromatic and temporal shifts plus other fancy somersaults that add exactly zero to the narrative.
There actually is an interlude in Bernstein’s life that would make a good movie: In 1976, Bernstein bailed on his wife and ran off with a man called Tommy Cothran; the following year, Bernstein’s wife was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, and Bernstein returned to his wife to care for her till she died.
Now, that would make a good movie.
This was not a good movie. Still, I had fun!
Maestro was playing at an art theater in Rhinebeck; Rhinebeck is home to the Best Chocolatier on the Planet. So, I could stuff myself with smuggled-in hazelnut truffles at each of the film’s many goofy moments. Plus, Rhinebeck is home to many kinda/sorta famous people and two of those sat right in back of me—what were their names again? Tip of my tongue!—so I got to eavesdrop on them as they debated in heated whispers just whose apartment in the Dakota had been used to shoot the Thanksgiving Day Parade scene with the Snoopy Balloon.
###
I continue to be in a dreadful mood, though I’m doing my damndest to keep the dreadful mood from doing any actual damage.
Keep exercising and keep Remunerating, I order myself, Hazelnut truffles? Sure. But in moderation. This, too, shall pass.
Had to scramble last night to nab an Airbnb in Ithaca.
Two hours south of the eclipse path. A doable drive, yes? Plus, I can pick a watchpoint in the high country, somewhere bucolic, where I can hear the chittering of the insects and the birds gradually ebb and watch the shadow bands begin their dance as the Celestial Dragon takes that first tasty bite of Sun. Much better than watching the eclipse from the sidewalk outside a motel in Rochester, Buffalo, or Syracuse.
I nabbed an Airbnb much bigger than I needed.
That way, I can extend an invitation to friends and relatives who forgot to plan and realize too late, But-but-but I won’t be alive in 2044 for the next eclipse!
###
What else?
I saw Maestro in a movie theater.
I tried to write something pithy & intelligent about it.
I failed.
Maestro isn’t a bad movie exactly; it’s just an utterly pointless movie. It focuses on Leonard Bernstein’s marriage, which in the quaint argot of the early Jurassic was a lavender marriage: As portrayed by Bradley-Cooper-the-actor, Leonard Bernstein was as gay as those 12 lords a-leaping through that Christmas carol. Bernstein’s marriage to a vagina-person would be confusing, except (the movie beats us over the head to make clear) it’s not——because Leonard Bernstein & his wife were soulmates—
It’s the fault of the script. The script sprawls over a 30-year period; the better to let Bradley-Cooper-the-director do all sorts of chromatic and temporal shifts plus other fancy somersaults that add exactly zero to the narrative.
There actually is an interlude in Bernstein’s life that would make a good movie: In 1976, Bernstein bailed on his wife and ran off with a man called Tommy Cothran; the following year, Bernstein’s wife was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, and Bernstein returned to his wife to care for her till she died.
Now, that would make a good movie.
This was not a good movie. Still, I had fun!
Maestro was playing at an art theater in Rhinebeck; Rhinebeck is home to the Best Chocolatier on the Planet. So, I could stuff myself with smuggled-in hazelnut truffles at each of the film’s many goofy moments. Plus, Rhinebeck is home to many kinda/sorta famous people and two of those sat right in back of me—what were their names again? Tip of my tongue!—so I got to eavesdrop on them as they debated in heated whispers just whose apartment in the Dakota had been used to shoot the Thanksgiving Day Parade scene with the Snoopy Balloon.
###
I continue to be in a dreadful mood, though I’m doing my damndest to keep the dreadful mood from doing any actual damage.
Keep exercising and keep Remunerating, I order myself, Hazelnut truffles? Sure. But in moderation. This, too, shall pass.
