I saw part of the documentary Dark Days last night, due to Geeta’s mad shopping spree at Amoeba. It was really interesting, but I got too tired to finish it. It’s all about the homeless who live in the NY subway tunnels, how they make that place their home, and how they survive in New York. It was a real eye-opener, especially because I’m in a place with more homeless people than I’ve seen outside of India.

On the complete other end of the spectrum, Cowboy Bebop is winning the “best anime series” award for me. On the other hand, I’m not an expert, and have no plans on becoming one. But it’s damn good. Especially the music.

Last weekend I saw a play called Thirst, by Neena Beber, who used to write for Clarissa Explains It All. A loose adaptation of a Henry James story, it tried to say a lot about art and the desire to possess things, in a very theatrical way. As Cheveda put it, it was a play that you could only really see that theater company doing in that space. It reminded me of the not-so-thrilling productions I’ve seen at Aurora. Maybe I’m alone here, but I want to go to theater that picks me up and throws me against the wall, breaking my ribs. Either violently or playfully, but I need to sit up and take notice of things. Of course, seeing new plays is always good, I think, because you learn different things than you do from old plays.

But the best of all is when they teach an old play new tricks.

My prelim is in a scant 13.5 hours. I took today off (mostly) and went into San Francisco, walked around a bit, popped into the library, and went to one of the cheapest sushi places I’ve seen ($4.25 for the 7 piece nigiri), ate too much wasabi, talked to Adam about this and that on the phone while he waited for a bus that neglects its duty to stop and pick up passengers, sat in a cafe rederiving forward and backward linear prediction filters (I said it was only mostly off) and revising (to use the Brit expression) my measure theory, hung out with Ann, watched The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeosie by Buñuel, which was hilarious, and then went to Nirvana, the fabulous “Burmese” noodle place in the Castro. All in all, a satisfying relaxing day.

The Castro Theater, which is where we saw the movie, is one of the coolest things (to me) about San Francisco. It’s an old-style movie house, with a balcony, wood seats upholstered in red velvet, tall ceiling, with a chandelier, and gold paint on some pretty elaborate molding on the walls. And they show foreign/old/art films. And before each screening there’s a guy who comes out and plays the organ for about fifteen minutes. Today he played a medly of old tunes, including “Blue Skies,” which is one of my favorites. In fact, Brent Spiner singing it was about the only good thing in the last Star Trek movie. In any case, I’ll be going there next week to see Errol Flynn as Robin Hood on the big screen — how could I resist? Daffy Duck would be so jealous.

So I have a subscription to GreenCine. Why, you may ask? Because they carry almost all of the films mentioned in a recent NY Times article. While watching a play on film is certainly not the same as watching it in a theater, I get to see people like Lee J. Cobb and Katherine Hepburn doing some really meaty theater. I could gush about this for minutes on end.

Coming up in my queue sometime — James Earl Jones in King Lear. That should be interesting. “Had I your tongues and eyes I’d use them so that heaven’s vault should crack.”

I saw Annie Hall today, and I have to say it’s one of the most satisfying Woody Allen films I’ve ever seen. It was clever, had a really consistent style, and really spoke to me. I mean, not that I’m a neurotic Jewish Manhattanite with two ex-wives and an obsession with death. But it’s a good film, with some cameos by Christopher Walken and Jeff Goldblum that are pretty hilarious. And Paul Simon is one creepy guy.

I recently watched a film version of Eugene O’Neill’s The Iceman Cometh that was four hours long. And it dragged too. That man sure held a bitter view of the world. All of the characters in the play are deluding themselves with fantasies about the things that they could do to raise themselves out of the dump they are in. It got me wondering about what pipe-dreams I feed myself, and if I’m truly happy or I’m just deluding myself.

Of course, I’m not truly happy about moving all of my stuff from my old place to the new place.

The more I pack
The more is left
Or so it seems to me.
My aching back
With every heft
Complains quite painfully.

Back to it.