2000-03-20
Yesterday I spent at home, except for a brief excursion. In the morning I
walked dogs and vacuumed and folded laundry and filed away papers and washed
dishes. In the afternoon, I drove to the University campus and met my friend
K at our usual spot to walk two laps around (1.6 miles x 2 = 3.2 miles).
After that I dashed into the bookstore to pick up the Sunday New York Times
for B then made my weekly library visit.
I picked up the new Woody Allen biography. It's one of two new ones,
actually, this is the one by Marion Meade, called The Unruly Life of Woody
Allen. A review I saw likened the book to a "20-muleteam People article"
which so far seems pretty accurate. But, hey, I never claimed not to read
People. I don't pay good money for it, I read it in the checkout line, and I
wouldn't have bought this book, either. But I am giving it my time.
Aside from being a big fan of much of his body of work, I find him pretty
fascinating, in large part because of his prolificness. A movie a year.
Finishes editing a picture one day and goes back the next to start work on
another project. I am always fascinated by those who are driven, being so
not driven myself.
In the evening, B was watching an A&E program about Hollywood scandals of
the 1920s. Drug addiction, murder, closted homosexuality, pedophilia: they had it all. The show was
very atmospheric but the excruciating pace prompted me to pick up my book.
I
suppose there are some who don't love a trainwreck; I'm not among them.
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