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2001-03-18
Simply because I thought it would be clever and charming and self-deprecating and self-referential and all sorts of other things at which I thought to aim in �following-up� my previous entry, I made a terrible mistake and thrust myself into the writing of a long entry about Angelina Jolie. From my excavatory labors at what proved to be a suffocating quicksand bog, all I have to show is a first paragraph:
I want to be wanted by the wanton, twice-married, breast-enhanced daughter of one of Hollywood�s most faded stars. I crave her attention; I imagine it to be delicious as fresh water must be to a survivor of shipwreck. Or pineapple, even�something so like a divine hand coming down from the sky and fulfilling�something so terminal.
The rest is awful. And I am disappointed and sore at myself for having wasted several hours this St. Patrick�s Day weekend on work that wasn�t good enough to keep�time I could have spent reading, or making collages, or answering e-mails, or even writing mean things about the Irish, or the Three Irish Tenors, or the Taliban, or the Williams Sisters, or Sean Puffy Combs, The Sopranos, Miramax, CGI, SRI�s or blogs�and I am bothered (like the guys in the golf carts in the Viagra ads, bothered) about not being up to snuff when both the situation and the delay would seem to demand something masterful. At the same time I am annoyed at myself for being so bothered. As they say, It happens.