Weekend just gone was my first with the new haircut. I'm also still reeling over the fact Matt Friedberger and I use the same shampoo (a tea tree-infused liquid oil). Taste the radness, as De Campo says.
Since opening in 2000, Doctor Follicles have managed my hairdo. They were there for me through my awkward Hedi Slimane phase (envisage a quail and a kingfisher doing the wild thing atop one’s noggin)
We finally saw Hidden Sunday morning. I was very impressed, but I don’t know if I got much pleasure from it. It’s pretty torturous viewing for what is, for the most part, a non-violent movie (there are two grisly scenes). I don’t know how Haneke does it. I remember feeling sorry for Isabelle Huppert after seeing The Piano Teacher. Such actorly conviction, I wondered, is bound to linger long after the shoot ends ('How will she ever recover?'). This one is even more disturbing because its about watching and being watched and the voyeuristic aspect implicates the audience in the terror. A preternatural tension bordering on the gratuitous consumes this picture. Stillness is a crucial aspect, so of course some asshole behind us is crinkling paper the entire third act. Seeing a movie of such killer intensity at 11am Sunday morning shot our Saturday night hangovers straight into the stratosphere, which was cool.
After that, boy did I feel like shopping. Bought a pair of trousers and the Essential Blue Oyster Cult; the former for its aesthetics and comfort and the latter for Burning for You, tied with Flywheel’s Minimum Amount of Fuss as my fav all-time cut. Shooting Shark, a middle of the road 80s ballad was an unexpected treat. Choruses don’t come any bigger:
Sick of hauling your love around
Wanna run the train alone
But the engine tracks straight through your heart
And weighs me like a stone
Three times I’ve sent you back from me
Three times my bones gone dry
And three times I’ve seen the shooting shark
Lighting up the sky