Raw, adjective: 9. disagreeably damp and chilly, as the weather or air
Sitting at home this chilly afternoon waiting for the delivery guys to ring my bell announcing the arrival of my brand-spankin' new cigar chair. It's pretty damn sweet; reeks of Hemingway and dimly-lit smoky rooms. They're supposed to be here sometime between 1 and 6, and in the meantime, I have successfully scrubbed my floor, read the paper, drank a cup (or 3) of coffee, and run the dishwasher. I feel so frickin productive.
Since the foot is still a little bit gimpy, I've been seeing a lot of movies lately. Finally have "An Inconvenient Truth" in the DVD player for later today, which makes me feel like I'll finally be doing my civil duty and seeing this global warming-fest featuring my man Al Gore. I'm a little afraid I'll be so depressed after seeing it that the rest of the night will = fetal position under the covers. But oh well.
But yesterday, I saw the new Chris Rock movie, "I Think I Love My Wife," spurred on by surprisingly positive reviews, and I've gotta say, it really was good. Thought-provoking, kind of hilarious, class- and racially-aware, as of course Chris Rock's shit generally is, and just worth seeing. Not a lot of "action," per se, but some spot-on observations about marriage and divorce and singlehood and the whole bourgeois American dream myth. Rock's character has it all: hot wife, adorable kids, sweet job in Manhattan, beautiful suburban home - and yet, the problem is, as he says: "I am so fucking bored." And, also, not getting laid.
Just honest, funny, real (well, "buppie real") shit. Not super thrilled that it ends with Rock's character pretty much just reconciling to a life of boredom and sexlessness versus something less stable and more invigorating, but what do you expect in a mainstream flick? And at least it does a decent job of showing the gray spaces in between.
Ok. 3:03, still no delivery man. Come on, guys!