Thursday, June 03, 2004
I am so frequently bored these days that in the middle of writing an email, for example, at the crest of rush-hour Internet cafe traffic, I find myself waking with a start, realizing that I have somehow nodded away to sleep. It can't be narcolepsy, although that might explain a lot of things.
Then again, I am bored with most things lately. Action movies, for example. I don't remember much of Vin Diesel in XXX
because I snoozed through the chase scenes and the explosions, which is to say I missed the bulk of the cinematic monstrosity. I have become too numb to appreciate the otherwise vicarious testosterone thrill of such and such. Increasingly, I now want the searing interior tapestries of quiet drama and comedy. Rambunctious comedy is okay, as long as they show a hint of a brain. Jim Carrey in Bruce Almighty, for example. Or the antics of Monty Python. Small dramas, too, are more intense than the brawny promises of action heroes. Charlotte Rampling in Swimming Pool
, for instance. Or Diane Lane in Under the Tuscan Sun
But after that movie or this, I still return to the old boredom, and forced to confront a day that may be busy, yes, but forever lacks the "bite" that would make all things worthwhile, and banish away a stir-crazy life.
A man needs
 This is Where You Bite the Sandwich