While My Movie Downloads
Waiting for The Day of the Triffids to download. This is a BBC series version. I loved the book, loved the old Hollywood movie version, and now I’m looking forward to watching what the BBC does with it. It came up in conversation on Echo when I was talking about the problems with The Happening.
The other day I watched a documentary about the Ramones called “End of the Century: The Story of the Ramones.” I was always ambivalent about punk rock. Loved some of the songs, the fashion, but I remember whenever I went to CBGB’s the anger and the toughness felt fake. A bunch of boys pretending to be bad, except sometimes someone came across as very genuine, but that wasn’t exactly preferable, it was actually sad and scary, but still. The Ramones were everyone’s favorites though, and this documentary was fantastic. And sad.
Sigh. That was my youth, the late 70’s and early 80’s. But the punk rock scene was only my occasional scene. I had my anger like everyone else, and I had friends who played there, but I was still mostly a happy young girl, happy to be in New York City and going to hear live music was pretty much my favorite thing to do in all the world and whenever I was in CBGB’s I had a hard time keeping my smile off my face. I must have stood out like a sore, but twinkling and grinning thumb.

I’m dropping my manuscript off in midtown today so I was checking all the museum exhibition schedules for something to do afterwards when I remembered it’s Monday and they’re all closed (annoying tradition). Before I realized this I had settled on the American Museum of Folk Art, where I was going to see some paintings by Henry Darger (that’s one of them here) and others. I’ve never been to the American Museum of Folk Art, which is insane because I love folk art and know nothing about it. I should have visited that museum a billion times already.
My kind of obsessive (that’s Elsie here). How many Dargers are out there, whose work we never see, whose work almost no one gets to see because it wasn’t preserved. I was thinking how I love going through forgotten remnants, the boxes of things that were put away and then never looked at again, but especially poignant are the people who where basically already forgotten in their lifetimes, working and living quietly away behind closed doors, with no one who really knew what they were doing or what went on in their heads.
There are all sorts of gaps in my education. I remember there was one personally traumatic year, the 7th or the 8th grade, nothing genuinely horrible happened, it was regular growing-up stuff, but I don’t think I paid much attention to what went on in school all year and to this day I’m fuzzy about how a bill becomes a law.