My introspective jag is about over.
Yeah, right. This one’s a lifer. Stuff over here- gathering in for the dad visit. He’s coming for Si’s dance recital, which is a three day extravaganza ranging somewhere around three hours a pop. She’s in approximately two minutes of it.
Our local dance studio has a nice little set up: The parents pay for dance lessons, costumes, and eventually $8 tickets to see the big show. Meanwhile, the kids provide the talent/entertainment, and the studio collects in triplicate.
I don’t think it would be so crazy to offer each family a free ticket or two, since without parents there’d be no kids, and thus no business, but as my mother pointed out to me the other day, nobody asked me. So I’m just gonna paste a smile on my face and obligingly bend over.
Me and dad’s relationship has been a bit strained. I’ve gotten blissfully lost in my romance this week, and I have that feeling in my head, like I’ll put it off till the last moment- exiting my little world to enter the complicated terrain of the father-daughter relationship.
I wish I didn’t hafta produce another me, like an acting buffer between us, but that’s just what happens. And I’m a little out of practice at it.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch…
J.J. Abrams is all over everything. The new Star Trek movie is off the hook *awesome* allegedly, but I so want to give that guy a makeover. He’s too him. He needs to try harder, damnit, it’s Hollywood. Maybe a sweep forward rocker hairdo that covers some of his face, and those black-rimmed glasses have got to go. C’mon! He already looks like Stephen Spielberg, and he’s barely forty. How can you produce so many edgy, cool-right-now-but-ultimately-forgettable flicks/t.v. shows, and still go with the pale-faced, dark-sweatered “I’m so smart, I don’t even hafta bother” look?
Hey, here’s some Love & Rockets… for your hump day.