Cold is mostly gone, but my chest is wracked with the aftershocks. As a consumptive, shouldn't I be taking opiates?
Tell me this is a typo: 140 volumes of Henry James’ letters? One hundred and forty? Especially given that pages upon pages of the first two volumes are Hank’s complaints about his constipation. God save us.
“Don’t Look Now” (yes, the quote marks are part of the title) at BAM tonight, part of a Daphne Du Maurier series. Donald Sutherland's curly locks and mustache made me think I was watching Kurt Vonnegut most of the movie, but other than that I was rather effectively creeped out. Venice in winter is made to look wonderfully eerie. The ending was disappointing (but that’s hindsight; serial killers are so trite) and the fashion, well the less said about that the better. However, Julie Christie looks good in anything, from knickers to tweeds, or nothing at all, as the case may be, and this dossier included every case. On the innernet, we learn that the beautiful Ms. Christie stood 14 inches shorter than her big Canadian co-star. Her curly locks were merging on Farrah Fawcett territory, but at least she didn’t have a mustache.
There’s this wine bar on Atlantic. I passed it twice tonight and as always noticed that there never seems to be anybody in the place. What’s up with that? The name’s cheesy, “Donna da vine,” but it doesn’t look insulting. I found some griping about small pours/big prices on chowhound, but like that has stopped people before?
On the same block, the former synagogue seems to been turned into a pretentious subterranean bar. You can smell the bullshit on their splash page. "...for the people of Brooklyn" it says. Yeah. The stained glass looks nice on the website, but the glamour gals who strike poses for the branding suggest it's trying really hard to be another cliff for the trend-lemmings.