Saturday, June 24, 2023

Asteroid City

Tupperware.  I have a green one somewhere that I wasn't able to find, the exact same kind used to hold the ashes of the dead mother in "Astroid City."  I'll find it eventually.  Damn. . . it would have been perfect.  But this will do.  

I've tried to find a picture of that green Tupperware scene from the film, but nothing like that is available online yet.  Unless you have seen the film, you will just have to trust me.  

The ex-wife of the CEO of Tupperware used to live just down the street from me.  She was a knockout, a Ph.D. in German lit.  Tupperware, the company, was already tanking.  I don't know the connection between Tupperware and my own hometown, but there is a Tupperware Auditorium here.  It used to be a big deal, but now, I think, they mostly do AARP bus shows there.  

Tupperware.  We were lucky we didn't all get cancer.  If you still have any, you know.  Old Tupperware gets a sticky, greasy film on it as it ages.  So why do I have this bowl?  Jesus. . . you are kidding me, right?  Why do I still have letters from old girlfriends?  I'm not one who lets go of the past.  Now trust me on this--I don't store anything in this Tupperware.  But look at this--it has served its purpose.  "Astroid City."

My review of the film.  Not as good as many of Anderson's films.  I'd rank most of them over this one.  But you have to see it if you are a fan of Anderson films.  It is part of the oeuvre.  I missed Bill Murray in this one.  Tom Hanks takes his place, but as my viewing companions noticed, the part was obviously written for Murray.  I guess Anderson wasn't willing to take a chance since Murray did whatever it is that we don't know what it is.  Murray is box office poison now, I guess.  We must tiptoe around the subject, though, because. . . you know.  

Anderson has become Woody Allen-esque in that EVERYONE is in this movie.  The cast goes on for famous miles.  

In the end, though, I think Anderson has satirized himself.  The film seems like a bit of a jab at his own filmmaking.  

Maybe I'll change my mind.  

I don't know if you can tell from my blog, but I am a pretty funny guy.  The best part of yesterday was making my friends laugh.  Big gut holding guffaws.  Again and again.  I'm like The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.  I listened to all the Lenny Bruce records when I was in high school.  He was my hero.  I guess that is where I learned to riff.  I don't need material.  It is everywhere.  Everything can be made funny.  

But most of the time, I'm quiet and shy.  

When I got home from the film, it was still fairly early since we had gone to the 3:30 show.  I had texts from Travis.  It was his birthday and he was out with his wife partying.  He sent me pictures of the drink menu.  He was going to drink them all, he said.  Or quite a few.  If he had what he intended, he will be feeling it this morning.  

Then I had another text.  One of the women I went to the movie with is selling her house.  She is the one who quit her factory job and is going to move into her 200 year old family home in Hooterville.  Her house here has only been on the market two days and she had just gotten an offer for $5,000 more than her asking price.  She was excited.  

I told her I was already in my sleeping costume.  She replied:

"Sleeping costume 😂😂😂🤣🤣"

No matter.  Both my companions wrote that they were, too.  We three enjoy the comforts of our homes.  

Still. . . I felt lame when I got another text. 

"How was the movie?"

The girl who will never ask me out was out.  She was meeting up with another refugee from the factory who was in town for a visit.  I sent a cocktail pic of my scotch.  

"No Campari tonight?"

"I've already had it."

She already knows my routine.  My refugee friend had not shown up yet, and my friend who will not ask me out said that "we are going to meet up with them."

"We?" I wrote.  

"That's the second time you've asked me about 'we'."


A bit later, she texted a picture of the two of them together.  I wish I could post it, but of course I can't.  Jesus Christ. . . she is a true beauty.  She's driving me crazy. 

But way leads to way the way one drink leads to another, and before the evening was through, I think I pissed her off.  There was no "goodnight."  There was no "good morning."  

Well. . . I may have a talent.  Selavy.  

I slept late today and now the sun is up and blaring.  I'm going to change my habits.  I swear I am.  Beginning now. 

Sort of.  I will be at my mother's in the late afternoon if you need me.  

I have no future plans.  Yesterday's companions were talking about a Sunday brunch, but I wasn't on that text group.  My friend selling her house has been the center of it all, but she has retired that position now and apparently I'm not on the new list.  It is O.K.  I was ready to let go anyway. . . but getting kicked off the island is a bit different.  I will need to think about being a flaneur once more.  A flaneur with a lousy knee.  But I can do it.  I'm pretty sure.  

The last paragraph of an article Travis sent me (link). 

All kinds of people today, including those for whom walking isn’t easy or possible, may consider themselves flâneurs and flâneuses. What remains of the original privileged character is a certain romance, an air of freedom and a desire to pursue a slower, looser way of experiencing a city — if only for an afternoon. Eventually, you return to your hotel. You’ve strolled unfamiliar streets and tried new things. If you’re lucky, you’ve seen something beautiful or tasted something superb. Maybe you’re feeling grateful, or you’ve rekindled some joie de vivre. You did not go out with a destination. But perhaps you arrived somewhere after all.

 Maybe I'll arrive somewhere after all.  

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