Creative Control

Miscellaneous Mental Musings of an Emerging Artist

Slap-Shot Bonham Carter.

It forthwith seems that weekend journal entries are going to be unlikely. This is not a surprise, although it is slightly disappointing.

Friday night was the trial run for what I hope to be a series of Summer Poker nights. Admittedly, we were only playing for chips, and when we actually start using money, the game will probably be Penny Poker, but still, there’s something fun about getting together with your friends and looking for their tells. Every so often, somebody does the Teddy KGB accent from “Rounders” (“He biet me”) and a good time is had by all.

Saturday I found myself lounging on the patio of a country club, celebrating the graduation of a friend from Pharmacy school, which also reminded me that I cannot go another year without pursuing my grad degree.

Getting out of the summer-otherwise cycle of life, after my college graduation, was akin, I felt, to getting out of prison after twenty years–the adjustment phase was wrenching, the lack of routine was jarring, and now, apparently, I can’t wait to go back. Ex-cons who want back into the slammer rob convenience stores. Ex-students who want back into the system fill out applications and save up money. I’m not sure which is more tragic.

Have a headache of the “pester” variety this morning–not enough to floor me, just enough to keep saying “Hey! Pain! You have pain! There’s pain in your head! Pain pain pain! Pain!” like that obnoxious younger cousin who likes to point out, over and over again, that there’s a stain on your shirt.

Had a strange, strange dream last night, in which I found myself as the goalie in a pickup game of ice hockey, which I don’t play. The team I was on was made up of celebrity actors, and while I can’t remember everybody on the ice, I remember that John Candy was there (in his bearded teddy bear mode) and so was Helena Bonham Carter, in full Marla Singer mode. I remember that my team seemed to consist entirely of forwards (that is, my team spent all their time pressuring the other goalie and refused to come back and defend me), and I was stuck blocking pucks left and right from an onslaught of the other team. The puck was on our side of the rink, and my team was waiting for it to come back this way. Finally, after much frenzied yelling on my part to have SOMEBODY on my team please play defense (even as I blocked every single slap shot upon me, reminding me that it was in fact, a dream), Helena grudgingly moved the our side of the half-court line. She didn’t go anywhere else, but she was technically and loyally on the defense–when the puck passed by her onto the other team’s side, right in front of her across the line, Ms. Bonham Carter refused to move past, feigning ignorance of a puck on the other side of the line.

Slide.

I hope for Kenneth Branagh’s sake that he doesn’t play ice hockey.

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This entry was posted on June 18, 2001 by in Life, Thoughts, Work.
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