Shoot! The Piano Tuner?

When the phone rang 15 minutes ago, I picked it up expecting another telemarketer or friend who forgot her homework (or God forbid, a college). The first hesitate syllables of “Is Mr. [insert horribly mangled version of my dad's name] there?” seemed to confirm that it was indeed a telemarketer.

The next words to tumble out of the caller’s mouth were, “I’m the piano tuner.” With the word “piano,” I winced as my stomach rang with a pang of guilt. I, who have not touched a piano for well over a year, did not want to think about it.

My history with the piano was a long and tortured affair. And a love affair it was not. In the days when I played piano, practicing was something I did with rote procedure and utter reluctance. Let me get it clear that I was never a musical child; the little musical talent I possessed was forced into me as a tube is forced down a windpipe. Whenever I think of piano, I think of that inestimable expanse of time when I could have been doing something I liked, rather than something I had to do. I just never had the enthusiasm.

I think that my thorough aversion to piano—perhaps partly borne out of rebellion against my parents’ wishes—has unfortunately spilled into a general aversion toward music. I used to listen to classical tracks in a hopeless attempt to imitate. Consequently, I now hear music and am often reminded of that dissatisfaction with piano practice.

I am putting my feelings too strongly. My active dislike of the piano has generally mellowed out a passive indifference. Sometimes, I’m even compelled to dabble and finger out a tune or two. I, however, do not hope to ever achieve that virtuoso ability of being one with the music.

Inconvenience Store

After realizing that all the cards in my house were either splattered with girly flowers or wishing people "Merry Christmas," I hopped into the car to buy some Thank You notes for my English homework. My dear mum took me to CVS, where I spent 2 minutes picking out cards, and she spent 20 minutes looking for coupons.

My mom is notorious for being able to spend more than an hour at CVS. I can only marvel at this feat for I could never bring myself to stand this frankly boring store for more than a few minutes. This is a convenience store, no? It's supposed to be in 'n out, not browse 'n linger.

Anyways, my mom first spent her time picking out the exact brand and type of Aquafresh toothpaste that was on sale. The sheer number of different types of toothpaste is pretty mindboggling, as it managed to cover an entire aisle, but it did not warrant the time it took my mom to find her toothpaste. As my mom took her time, I turned to the other aisle and ruminated on whether to get more tampons, but seeing that none were on sale, decided otherwise.

The next item of purchase was some Dentyne gum. While I deplored her to think altruistically and save the world from my bad breath, my mom rummaged through her purse, saying, "I must have a coupon!" Finding a coupon becomes a rather Herculean task when it involves looking for a 2x3 in slip of paper in a very large 5-pocket bag. Following that Asian cliche, I cringed as my mom eagerly dug through her bag in the middle of the aisle, in full view of the entire store.

At last, it was time to check out. Our cashier was elderly and foreign, not a good combination when your customer is the exact same thing. So my mom argued loudly over a 99 cent coupon while I subtly edged away from her figure. Thank god I decided against the tampons.

The Hit List 5/29/30

Everyone has their prom pictures up. Squee! Everyone is so pretty. So I randomly clicked through facebook and looked at all the pretty pictures. Aww! It seems that everyone else is already excited for prom next year, but despite all the gauzy dresses and perfectly-permed hair, I'm still not that excited. Perhaps it's because of those things rather than in spite of them.

My mom bought a bag of ridiculously delicious dried mango from Costo yesterday. This bag, as of now, is already half empty. (Keep in mind its a Costo bag.) The dried mango is perfectly sweet and tangy and chewy and soft and mangoey. If only there weren't so many calories.

Last Friday, I got my Amazon shipment of Kingdom of Heaven: Director's Cut and Ane Brun's A Temporary Dive. Guess what's occupying my computer right now.

Last Friday, we also hung out around Alice's/my house. A complete list of activities: ate cheese fries, watched 20 min of Big Fish, ate pizza, made a fire, made s'mores, ate marshmallows, burned napkins, blasted the radio, danced pseuo-sluttily, annoyed the neighbors, burned old papers, played BS, watched the battle scenes in Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children, drank water, annoyed my family. A note of this FFVII thing, why are all the Japanese guys effeminate and lithe, while the American men are butch and muscled? The Japanese anime guys are so much hotter.

The Festival de Cannes wrapped up yesterday with the award ceremony. Ken Loach's The Wind that Shakes the Barley surprisingly (or not, since this is Cannes) won the Palme d'Or. Comment? Got nothing. I did get a good chuckle when people compared its title to Ghost World's The Flower that Drank the Moon.

A Streetcar Named Desire (Kazan, 1951)

Marlon Brando is sexy. He's sexy while strutting down the street in a grease-stained wifebeater. He's sexy in a suit. He's sexy in a sweat-soaked T-shirt. He's sexy in the silk pajamas. He's sexy. Period.

Lest you think I watched this movie to jerk off, A Streetcar Named Desire is actually a vital part of my history project. I would have certainly breezed right by its ratty DVD case in the library if it were not for this project. But to my great fortune, I picked up this film.

A Streetcar Named Desire is fraught with tension, explosion, and passion anchored by its magnetic performances. Understatement may be the newest vogue, but Streetcar rarely seems dated in its outbursts of raw, and honest, emotion.

I spent a paragraph drooling over Brando, but one should not forget that it is truly Vivien Leigh's film. As the disturbed and shunned Blanche Dubois, Leigh paints a portrait of a Southern belle vastly superior to any work she did in all 4 hours of Gone With the Wind. Although some may argue Blanche to be an intentionally outrageous character, I feel that she is very real indeed. Blanche's passive-aggressiveness and her eager facade gave me strong impressions of people I have met in real life.

I don't have much to say about Streetcar except that it is one of the few "classics" I do not feel disappointed in. On a slight tangent, it is interesting to return to A Streetcar Named Desire after watching Pedro Almodovar's All About My Mother, which references the former film heavily.

Degrees of Separation

It's kind of sad that I am staying at home thinking about this instead of going to prom. But alas, I'd probably find this much more amusing anyways. So follow the below logic to see what I figured out today:

Wes Anderson directed The Royal Tenenbaums.
The Royal Tenenbaums soundtrack features singer-model Nico (who has a really cool man-voice).
Nico plays herself in La Dolce Vita.
La Dolce Vita is directed by Federico Fellini.
La Dolce Vita was shot at Cinecitta.
Cinecitta is Fellini's personal movie studio.
The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (an American movie) was the last film shot at Cincecitta.
The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou is directed by Wes Anderson.

Isn't that a fascinating circle of esoteric connections? But wait, there's more!

In my last post about La Dolce Vita, I mentioned that my feelings toward the film exactly mirrored my feelings toward another film. And guess which one that would be? Wes Anderson's The Royal Tenenbaums! I disliked both films upon my initial viewing, but then grew to like them more with time. I also felt that they both had strong individual scenes but weaker overall structure. But wait, there's still more!

Well, I'm guessing here, but I'm most likely right. Wes Anderson, being the type of director he is, probably has countless references to Fellini in his own films.

Who knows? Perhaps I will one day grow to love and adore Fellini as I much as I do Anderson. But on a purely superficial scale, Anderson is much more handsome than Fellini will ever be (considering he's dead).