Look, uh, more closely
I watched American Beauty last night. I hadn’t seen the film in two years, which is a long time gone, considering it was among my top two or three favorite movies for the first couple of years it had existed. I watched in the theatre five or six times (I even watched it in Paris once, for goodness’ sake, near the Arc de Triomphe. “Champion!”)
A lot has happened in two years. New Rochelle. New York City. New Pope.
And somewhere along the way, I stopped identifying with the kids in the flick (especially Ricky Fitts, who, as I used to, cries at the slightest imagined poignancy), stopped finding Mena Suvari attractive, and started identifying with the man himself, Lester Burnham.
I used to think the movie encouraged me to see the beauty in the world, and I did for a while. I teared at bags, dandylions, kittens and some puppies; listened to Pink Floyd and Free and Rush and Bloc Party — that last one only because the media told me to. But I don’t own a video camera (let alone one that zooms) and I’m not a drug dealer and $40,000 won’t get you jack shit in New York.
Which is why I’m out.
I hope you enjoyed this last post from the cozy confines of East 13th Street. Newer posts, coming next week, won’t be as cramped or expensive and will smell even less like urine.
Ciao for now.
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