Well, dear readers, it was like a ghost town around these here part yesterday. The saloon was empty, the streets were empty, even the spittoon was empty. Where in tarnation were all you pardners yesterday? Ridin’ the range? Crossin’ the prairie? Takin’ the stage to Dodge? My spurs were echoing lonesome down these deserted streets yesterday. Oh, some of our regular townsfolk were here, some of our deputies were here, but there were many pardners who were errant and truant varmints yesterday. If they continue to be errant and truant we’ll have to put up Wanted posters for each and every one of them and hire bounty hunters to rope ’em in with a riata. What am I, John Wayne all of a sudden?
My goodness, these notes are already ripe with metaphor, aren’t they? They are positively ripe with metaphor – they are the good, the bad and the ugly of notes. They are a fistful of notes, but for a few notes more we might be able to stop by high noon. By the way (BTW, in Internet lingo), the merry searchers have returned and are searching merrily. Frankly, I’d like to put them on the 3:10 to Yuma to visit the man from Laramie. Or maybe we could send them to Rio Bravo or, at the very least, to red river. Yes, once upon a time in the west there were merry searchers, and these searchers were professionals and they were quite the wild bunch if you ask me. They’d ride the high country looking for any and everything, searching and searching, yet when you ask these merry searchers to identify themselves they merely reply, “My name is nobody” as if that were an answer. But, as sure as the turnin’ of the snow, they’ll be back like always. It is in their nature and no matter how hard we may try we may not change people’s natures, so we must bite the bullet while they search merrily away. What the hell am I talking about?
Last night I went to a friend’s screening room – he’d acquired a print of Panic Room and since I’d never seen it I went. Mr. George Chakiris was there, too, as he is sometimes and I found out that his non-participation in the West Side Story DVD and press junket was a giant comedy of errors due to the ineptitude of MGM/UA. How sad, really. Panic Room was a decent if contrived little thriller, a bit too long for its own good, and sometimes done in by the ridiculous attention-getting shots where the camera would zoom in and out and around impossible things, all with the aid of CGI, and all just show-off moves that had nothing whatsoever to do with telling a story. The thing is, I think somewhere lurking in David Fincher is a good director, but he just can’t seem to stop with these show-off flourishes which is a shame because the rest of the film is directed quite efficiently and mounts a good deal of tension. Of course, he can’t overcome the script’s contrivances, but I still enjoyed it nonetheless.
Well, why don’t we all click on the Unseemly Button below before the unseemly metaphors come back and I start drawlin’ like a dude again.
Has anyone noticed that these here notes are ripe with metaphor? These are our old west notes, our cowpoke notes, and now I’m thirsty for a swig of sarsaparilla. Sure, run to your dictionaries, but that’s the way it’s spelled.
Don’t forget, Donald has a brand spanking new radio show going up today and maybe, just maybe, he’ll let us all know what in tarnation it is. And don’t forget, tomorrow night is our Unseemly Live Chat, which is indeed going to start at five o’clock Pacific Mean Daylight Savings Time. So, be there or be round. I want a full chat room, filled to the rafters because I can tell you things are gonna get wild and wooly.
Well, dear readers, I must take the day, I must do the things I do, I must ride the range, I must mosey on, for I have spurs that jingle jangle jingle. Today’s topic of discussion: It’s Sunday – free-for-all day, the day in which you get to discuss any durned thing you want to, so post away, pardners, and I’ll be back to take part in whatever discussions are going on. And, if it’s a ghost town agin, you might just be lookin’ down the barrel of a six-shooter.