So I've been thinking I've been trapped in a bad indy movie lately--one of those ones with smart looking folks dressed well in relationships that are, by turns, exhilarating and agonizing, and in either instance, carried out in very clever dialogue.
Today, we changed genres. M, G, L and I went to Gladstones for lunch. Looking smart, sounding clever, and feeling exhilarated and agonized. We ate mountains of food that still too closely resembled the living sea creature donors (lobster heads and oysters and such) in a table overlooking the beach. On the beach, happened to be Riordan's birthday party. Which meant we were overlooking not only bright tables of elbow rubbers but also the entertainment which consisted of trapeze artists and aerialists in all sorts of costumes.
I have often asked lately: who's writing this script, and now I know: Greenaway and Fellini.
If I believed in god, I would really have to hand it to him. He's a pretty funny guy.