solo inherent vice

I went to the movies, by myself.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Is there?
No.
I saw "Inherent Vice."
Rather liked it, not sure why; maybe because of its mix of comedy and film noir. Some combination, eh? (And I enjoyed the acting performances. Does acting by itself ever carry a film? And if you have to remark on the acting, doesn't that count as a negative for the movie as a whole?)
Make of it what you will: a man goes to the movies solo on a Friday night, and the movie he sees is "Inherent Vice."

Tower Scheiße

Saw Tower Heist. My first choice, J. Edgar, was sold out. Twice. That's encouraging, in its own way.

At least I expected Tower Heist to be funny.

It was not.

I liked Alan Alda as an affable, evil, charming swindler, a la Madoff.

The movie at times skated along a serious edge that touched on all the disparities of wealth the Occupy Wall Street folks are targeting. But it only skated along the edge of that and was afraid to confront the serious stuff. If it did do that, it might've been an interesting movie. And it still might've managed to be funny, just as The Sopranos managed to be at times. Ben Stiller could've pulled it off; Eddie Murphy, too. And Matthew Broderick. Tea Leoni also.

Too bad it wimped out into silliness.

Popi

Popi is an unheralded, or perhaps heralded (I like either word), movie.

Ever see it?

Alan Arkin. Rita Moreno.

Touching, funny, sentimental, gritty.

I don't know. I have not seen it in several years; maybe I'd find it dated now.

But I'm dated now too.

My Life as a Dawg

Scene: U.S. Postal Service (USPS) Post Office, Carousel Center.

I walk to the counter and see three young people preparing a mass mailing, putting address labels or stamps (or both) on postcard mailers. It's not the counter where you make your purchases, but a counter where people fill out addresses, write bills, wrap packages, that sort of thing. This trio has hundreds of cards they're working on. I'm doing some paperwork of my own, listening. One young gal decries Syracuse. "I mean, why would anyone want to live here? There's nothing for artists." Not true, in my view, but I keep quiet. The three are working fast, but seem to be having a good time, openly chatting with each other. I get in line. (USPS lines are notoriously slow, and the USPS is dreadful when it comes to being customer-oriented. Lunchtime and a line of 533 people? Sorry. One staff person to serve you. Need one lovely stamp? Sorry. You must buy 20. Or use the machine, which provides no stamps.) My wife and daughter come in as I am waiting in line and bantering with The Trio, whose leader is blonde, attractive (of course). (Yes, The Laughorist Dawg's tail is wagging and his tongue is lolling; i.e., I'm shamelessly flirting.) "Hey, these folks will pay you to work for 'em," I joke so that my daughter hears and so does The Trio. They laugh but don't offer my young one the job. "Yeah, we've got to get these out before closing," Blonde Entrepreneurial Leader (BEL ) reveals. "What are selling, you entrepreneurs?" I chirpily inquire. BEL, sporting shiny eyeliner, replies, "Permanent makeup." I hardly know what that is, but later my wife and daughter give me the lowdown. "We've got to get all these out by closing." [Closing is 9 p.m., about 35 minutes away.] "Where'd you get your address list from? Did you buy it?" "They're my customers, all 850 of them," BEL says. Detecting a maybe-but-not-so-sure-of-it British accent, I cheekily, rudely, and teasingly add, "And where'd you get your fake British accent from?" while already regretting it and sensing the pie hurling toward my face. "It's Australian. I'm Australian, ya mongrel!" But she says it for effect, with a smile, and we all laugh. Heartily. Especially me. It was funny. She took no prisoners. I deserved it. It seemed everyone had a good time with it. (Except for the stoic, expressionless older woman across from me, whose face declared, like a billboard: "You mongrel cad!") Ah, The Laughorist strikes again. In public, this time. Now you can see why my profile photo is accurate after all. p.s. I love that movie, My Life as a Dog.

Septuple Hyphenated Hiatus of Hankering

On Friday morning, there were by my count 23 riders on the bus, a fivefold increase from the previous morning's commute. What do we owe the increased ridership to: Gas prices? Global warming? Payday? Report-to-caseworker day?

One of the new riders, a New Rider of the Purple Sage, was Marilyn Monroe, wearing a wise and lavender version of that fabulous famous dress that blows upward erotically from the sidewalk grate in a memorable scene from the 1955 film "The Seven Year Itch." (Speaking of which, I'm really itching to tell you that the movie's title yearns, cries out for, a hyphen between seven and year. And upon reflection, isn't the hyphen itself an intimate mark of punctuation, a subtle conjoiner, a conjugal connector? And upon even further reflection, is there really anything to that "seven-year itch" theory of wanderlust? Or is it more like "seven-minute itch"? The Laughorist wander-wonders, hyphenically.)

Speaking of wonder-wanderings, I almost plaintively asked Marilyn for a lurid lapdance, but demurred.

What do you think I am, some kind of purple necro-nut? Besides, it's a public bus, not a bus with the adjective preceding bus missing that fourth letter, a typo I have paranoically dreaded in my years as an editor.

Further besides, my libido flags at morningtime, at less than half-mast, the mourning dove of love all but dormant.