I love going on dates with myself. Especially on long walks downtown at dusk when young people are standing in doorways drinking beers out of plastic cans, smoking cigarettes, talking about music and poverty.
I took myself to see a movie at the mall tonight before my walk. Lucky Number Sleven. The movie received good reviews because it had an unexpected ending. I’d haven’t given it good reviews at all. In fact, I don’t. It isn’t the cheap fooleries of art but the familiarities that rapture people.
Hollywood is dieing.
The mall is dead. A carcass in which flies and worms and other bugs (Verizon, Clearwire, Sprint) are laying eggs in the rotting flesh. When everyone has picture phones people will walk with their fingers through pictures of the mall wasting money on ring-tones and emoticons: creating identities out of sound and mega pixels instead of denim and jewelry.
After the movie I walked outside, happy to see a full moon climbing in the sky. I walked downtown which was alive for a Wednesday night. This jolly kid pumped his fist in my face shouting something about Irish pride. He slapped me on the back and told me a long tale about the newly open Hawiian restaruant. All the while Bob Marly was blasting from the speakers pointed out towards the street.