New Bloomberg Reviews, Halloween, Selfishness

Oh, dear Bloggle, why have I forsaken thee? So much to say.

First, I feel I've made a great decision living with the new boys I'm to be living with come Saturday. Calm, cool and collected ... that's the sense I get. Check.

Second. Two nights ago, I went to coffee (err, hot chocolate ... no stomach for coffee) with an old friend of mine. Spoke of ills of life, the outlook for better things, how to deal. One of those convos. Oh, how great I was feeling on my way back to my now-former apartment.

Got home -- this was Wednesday night -- and knew I had a deadline the next morning. I had to turn in three reviews.

Now.

I'd not gone out, not done a thing for over a week at this point. Dedicated my life to inundation of moving pictures and criticism and the researching of it all. Each night, post-work cum post-movie, I got home and got to work. I'd stay up til 4am, or later, figuring out what I wanted to say. Or how I wanted to say it in some grander context...

Well, post-hot chocolate, my eyelids were magnetized. They wanted each other. Sooooo badly. I decided that I'd put on a little Seinfeld to "rest my eyes" for juuuuust a minute. (Thankfully, I remember college so clearly that I caught myself from that easy trap and set my alarm for 3 a.m.)

I awoke to the worst sounding alarm, some ridiculous little jingle irritating my ear with its simultaneous vibration. Have I no tact? Clearly, no.

I couldn't get up.

I finally did, round 6 a.m. (maybe more like 4 a.m., I'm lying so I can disclaim the quality) and worked til I went into work and turned in the reviews.

I'll write what I wrote on another "wall," as it were.

"Shill-anthropy. Btw, I'm going to blog about this, but the editor I worked on these with skinned them like you would a poisonous snake. She gutted me. Cut the fat, and made me an anorexic critic. They're all still my words, but sheesh, for "space" we had to cut it down ... good lord. I will never work with her again. That's my disclaimer."

http://www.bloomberg.com/apps/news?pid=20601088&sid=aNT5Y2FPnFL8&refer=muse

I know that a couple of work friends want to hear about how I stood up for myself (that's thrice, Grice) today ... and I'll write more on that later. For now, I'm speeeeeeent. And it's effing Halloween! My favorite of all holidays.

(Don't know why this didn't post yesterday.)

Last Minute Screening, Too Much Skin?, The Guitar

I just screened a last-minute add-on film (I suppose it's apparent I have nothing to do), which was pretty impressive. I need to think on it some more before I come up with my opinion, but "impressive" is undeniable. It's called "The Guitar," and it's the directorial debut of Robert Redford's daughter, Amy.

A woman finds out she has cancer, and is to die in a month or two. Her boyfriend abandons her, saying he needs to find his "inner child." So, she fills her last allotted time giving a big eff you to the life she's known.

Though a somewhat typical find-yourself setup at first glance, it was pretty unique; there was perhaps a little too much skin, sex and orgiastic play at some points for a lunch-break viewing. Keen to see how I ultimately feel about it, upon more thought.

No sleep tonight.

Job Loss, Great Depression, "The Night of the Hunter"

I arrived at work today to find an email awaiting from a friend asking whether I'd heard these rumors about a third of Goldman's bankers getting the axe, talk of no bonuses, etc.

A minute later, a message from another friend whose financial services company finds out today what (large) percentage of people are receiving pink slips, and what groups will be gone entirely; his boss, who often works virtually, came into the office today.

"Such a weird day...its so dark outside and people are finding out if they're getting fired," he said.

I glanced out the window and, shudder. What sad, scary times.

I tried to think of some funny Great Depression clips to cheer myself up, but the first thing that came to mind was the crazy, awesome movie I watched (fell asleep to) last night, "The Night of the Hunter," which takes place in GD times.

It's an old movie (1955), so while I'd read up on it and how "revolutionary" it was, how it really pushed the envelope, how psychologically thrilling and eerie it was -- "Yeah, sure," I thought. "It's old. Can't be anything compared to what these eyes have seen."

Incorrect.

It's about a religious fanatic, who's a self-dubbed "Preacher." He (Robert Mitchum) has LOVE and HATE tattooed across the knuckles of his right and left hands, respectively (This is also a classic movie that, when you watch it, you immediately get references that are dropped in modern movies that you'd heretofore glossed over.) He roams the countryside killing women after the Lord hath spoken to him.

There are scenes of him in erotic dance houses, as he sits in the audience watching the women writhe with a vicious, loathsome, yet clearly yearning, look on his face. It's chill-inducing.

He finally has to go to jail for a stolen car. While there he meets a man who's been sentenced to death for killing two men and stealing their $10,000 (There's a line where the imprisoned man says he was just too tired of these oblivious, rich, banker-types stealing money from the rest of the impoverished U.S., which I thought resonated to today's time). The Preacher learns that the man's only told his two children (aged 9 and 4) where the money is.

Upon release, the Preacher finds the family, marries the wife, tells her in one of the eeriest scenes I've seen in a long time that he will never consummate the marriage; her body is only for childbearing; and that she's a horrible sinner. The acting is amazing and he goes on to brainwash her and ... well, we'll leave it at that.

A little more scary and depressing than fearing the loss of one's job. But ...

I screened "Splinter" and "Role Models" yesterday. I put "The Night of the Hunter" in too attempt to remind myself that I like movies.

The trailer kind of makes it just look like some old movie, but it's really twisted.

Self Note, Jerry Maguire, Too Much Information

Let’s just take one last look.

We wave good-bye. A good-bye to past, err, current circumstance.

I’ve become a clichéd 25-year-old girl.

I was musing on it this morning in my head, and that’s the end result. I’m lying on my stomach at the time, as that’s the only way I can be “comfortable” on the now-entirely deflated air mattress that is my bed. So, I’m lying on rubber on the hardwood floor. The birds won’t stop squawking at me from right outside the window that won’t close right. And, while the sun’s reared its head, it still doesn’t illuminate the room since the overhead light went out days ago; I’ve been using only the TV and my computer for light (I did bring in an intermittent lamp, but it lasted two days – it’s got to be the outlets in this place).

Sobbed like I’d lost my baby brother (I don’t have one, so there shouldn’t be any jinxing.)

Heart-broken, hate (parts of) my job, have few friends to count on, the list I drew out in my head – oh, it started to get long.

The sobbing lasted aboouuuuut 30 seconds. And, I think I was trying to pull it out of me, in a way: “God, this is how you’re living Morgan? You should be so depressed. And sad, be sad. God, affect some sadness!” I may have even tried to shake my shoulders somewhat, but that was impeded by them knocking round on the floor.

Then I snapped myself out of it. Think, think. [Blink, blink.]

And then, I did my characteristic giggling. Rolled over (ouch, watch the right side, the femur’s still sore) and stared at the bouncing DVD cube on the television set.

It’s as if I’ve tried to fast forward through so many emotional things they say “writers” must experience to, well, write well. You can’t write experience if you don’t have it.

I could’ve hobbled over, taken a chair and fixed the overhead light. Or, called our Super, Frank, and had him do it. He’d have taken care of the window, too, I’m sure. I could’ve gimped over to the closet and gotten out the mattress inflator and inflated up the bed. I could’ve bought a real bed. Nope, just didn’t do it. I could’ve gotten over boy by being a floozy. Well.

Maybe I put myself through these self-inflicted inconveniences so I could know how it feels, and how it feels to get myself out of them. I dwell, but I don’t have much tolerance for cliché.

I giggled after the brief bout of sadness because I got an idea for a funny story. One that hopefully I’ll start on today. And, I know that I’m moving, sadly not to L.A. just yet, but to a better-suited apartment.

No more time to be sad. And I made a new resolution, which I’ll keep to myself for now.

Self meeting, adjourned.

"A breakdown? A break through. I couldn't escape one, single thought." Thank you, Jerry Maguire. We shall see.

Boss's Email, Newman's Own, New Halloween Decision

Bossman just sent me a note regarding the signature in my work messages.

Everyone puts a little quote, or a funny saying -- my beloved work neighbor, the 52-year old man who keeps me sane and makes me laugh, changes it every day: "R.I.P. [insert famous person]" after checking one of his favorite sites, a Celebrity Death Beeper.

My boss just wrote: "You're still mourning Paul Newman???"

"Still. I've had an empty box of his [Newman's Own] raisins that David brought me over a year ago sitting on my desk. He's angled so he can watch me type. I was in love with him for more than half my life. :'-("

(My first reaction was to send Boss my blog post about the morning I found out. "Ooohhh, another reader," she shamelessly thinks. Thankfully, I let that idea sit on the brain for a minute and thought better of it.)

It made me sad, again.

But, it spurred the inspiration for my Halloween costume. I'm going to be a shackled Cool Hand Luke, I believe. I was going to be Chigurh from No Country, but where would I get that kind of weapon? Lofty goals, Grice. Shackles, I think I can handle.

A terribly sad, famous 00:40 seconds: