The “nom nom nom” is because I am now always making this noise after I eat to try to encourage Archer to stop making such a look of disgust after every bite of his baby foods.
So! Media! I’m still trying to get back in the groove of things like reading, writing, using my brain and generally watching anything other than Frasier reruns, but I have been doing better recently.
Example A: Watching the new Sherlock Holmes movie with my handsome partner in crime. I in no way agreed to do this to see these two cuties interact:
Nom nom nom. As you were. I actually very much enjoyed the new film, although I was quite sad that they killed of Rachel McAdams so quickly. Where’s Ryan Gosling when you need him?
Example B: Finally finishing The Cat’s Table by my secret way-too-old-but-still-ridiculously-knee-weakeningly-hot literary crush, Michael Ondaatje. Ever since the sad loss of Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., there is no author I’d jump the bones of quicker than Ondaatje. I made a fool of myself like a school girl when I met him two years ago at Telluride’s Film Festival, and don’t regret it for an instant. I mean, look at these eyes:
Are you even kidding me? And now look into those eyes and then read:
He did not go back up on deck for a last look, or to wave at his relatives who had brought him to the harbour. He could hear singing and imagined the slow and then eager parting of families taking place in the thrilling night air. I do not know, even now, why he chose this solitude. Had whoever brought him onto the Oronsay already left? In films people tear themselves away from one another weeping, and the ship separates from land while the departed hold on to those disappearing faces until all distinction is lost.
I try to imagine who the boy on the ship was. Perhaps a sense of self is not even there in his nervous stillness in the narrow bunk, in this green grasshopper or little cricket, as if he has been smuggled away accidentally, with no knowledge of the act, into the future. (Two-page exerpt)
