Paul Newman, Revisited, Part 2.

I've been thinking a lot about it, and it's bothering me that I didn't mention in my last bloggle post a very big deal this past summer.

I went on a date in early June -- something Ms. Grice never does, or doesn't like to do. This boy took me to the Museum of the Moving Image. In Astoria, Queens! It was such a trek that I thought to myself, "Well, self, if this boy doesn't get that making me go all the way up here is a big to-do, we know where he stands."

However, I got there and holy Toledo. This was a palace. If I could've found a nook to sleep where I wouldn't be found, I'd have been sleeping there every night for the past 4 months.

Best part was, I ran up to the ticket-taker, and he gave me the paper listing out what exhibitions were on display.

The guy says: "Yuh know, it's Paul Newman week."

My jaw dropped down to the floor and I swallowed many mosquitoes.

"Ahbadabada, whaaaaaaat?"

"Yeah, we're playing The Hustler and The Color of Money tonight. For free since you already paid for your entrance ticket. [$10!]."

I felt like I had stumbled into my Heaven.

The date after half an hour of bumbling around said: "So, let's go get dinner?"

Me: "Uhh, no. Yeah right. Did you hear that guy? The Hustler AND The Color of Money?"

He looked at me curiously; I stared back, my Texas spine finally putting itself to use. "Nah, good to know you," as I furrowed my brow. "But, I gotta go see Paul."

In between films, I called Mama G and told her about my good fortune. She was so excited for me -- until I told her I gave up on a date. Then: "MORGAAAAAAAAN!!!!!"

Paul Newman, Revisited.

A couple weeks ago, I was tossing and turning in my bed, per usual, thinking about something inevitably inane. I was probably trying to think about the efficiency of euphemisms. Or something. All the sudden, something struck me. No, not "struck me" -- came hammering down on me like a ton of Anna Karenina-sized bricks.

What I remembered was that it was mid-September and: Yesterday was the third anniversary of Paul Newman's death.

If I'm honest with myself, and you, my lone reader, there isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about Paul Newman. Maybe I'll watch a movie of his (my first born will be named Lucas); someone will joke about my love for PN, thereby reminding me; I'll glance at my a/c and see his handsome face smiling at me from an autographed still from Cool Hand Luke -- doesn't matter. Each and every day, something comes up where I'll stupidly reference a phrase from his movies or dote on him, just because.

I'll just re-post my first, initial reaction:

Now. I’m wiping the sleep away from my beady eyes and jolt upright in shock. My lips start to quiver, my jaw starts trembling – and it happened. I cried thankless, shameless tears as I sat there on my little air mattress in my new room (which is finally coming together, by the way).

I’ve joked a thousand times about how I’d cry when PN died. I wrote about it on this silly bloggle (and jinxed it? Believe you me, that was the first reaction I had … Hell hath a place for me now, I’m sure) but I didn’t think I actually would workout the old tear ducts, like some love-stricken fan who wanted to impale themselves after the loss of a Beatle.

It takes some pretty heavy things to make me cry; and it just made me realize how much I really did, and do, admire PN – everything from his early career and movie choices, to his lifestyle, and – perhaps most selfishly – how handsome and righteous his roles most often were. He will be an everlasting love.

Then, there was last year's post:

Today is the second anniversary of Paul Newman's death. Crestfallen.

I'd been thinking about this day all month, ever since I visited a friend in Westport, CT for a few days, where Paul Newman lived until his death. As we drove from the train station to my friend's home, he pointed out the window through the trees to the Westport Country Playhouse, where Newman's wife Joanne Woodward was artistic director and where Newman himself was part-owner of the restaurant next door.

It took a dozen swallows to loosen the knot in my throat.

And, now it's year 3 of no more Paul Newman. "Just passin' time, Boss."