Tripping daintily through the giant killer tulips by Matt Worley
Maybe it all started Thursday night when we went to go see David Lynch's Lost Highway (it's in the cheap seats finally). Apart from multiple shots of a naked Patricia Arquette (which I think I understood completely), one has to wonder if Lynch understands coherent narrative, or he's just trying to be difficult. While there were brief instances of brilliance (that line about the barking dog), there were really long streaks of wasted performances. I can just see Lynch sitting there on the set, telling his hired actors in that eerie Upper Midwestern accent of his, "Just say the lines, you don't have to actually mean it." If these characters have no soul, why are they so passionately running all over the place?
Of course it could have all began on Friday morning, when I woke up from a thoroughly confusing dream (brought on by Lost Highway, no doubt, walking in the spiderwebs--oh no, not again) to realize I set the volume on my alarm clock way too loud. It was blasting something from the late 70s (I do this on purpose--the sounds of the 70s always cause me to rush and turn off the alarm, even from the deepest of sleep), and I realized I had to get up for work. I'm not sure if the random comments of, "Matt is an intricate part of this design team" coming from my supervisor are meant as encouragement, or as some sort of sick joke they talk about after I leave. This kind of thing has been happening ever since I had the brilliant idea run huge 150 point letters in 8 percent black behind a picture of a hand pruning rose bushes on the cover of our annual Home and Garden section.
Then again, it might have started on Saturday morning, when the big joke was whether or not we were going to hold the front page just in case someone blew something up in Denver in an obvious homage to the Oklahoma City Bombing two years ago. I left the madhouse early (as always on Saturdays) so I could get another four hours of sleep. The sight of roof repair on a neighboring house sealed the deal. Yes, it is officially summer here in the great Southwest. I took it all in stride, though. I put on an old Soundgarden CD and shot nature videos of jumping insects in our backyard.
There are a lot of places that probably wouldn't have minded a slower transition from winter to summer: North Dakota comes to mind right off. Those people, however, are in the minority. While they have to deal with snow one day, flood the next, the rest of us are wondering why there was such a quick transition from Oscar-wannabe and crappy Spring movies to big blockbuster, gotta-make-a-$100-million, can you believe what a computer can do, humungo pictures at the box office. It's as if Hollywood can't wait to get everyone out of school (they might have the kids on their side for this one) and into a freezing theater for a few hours. Okay, it's not only "as if," it is.
So I'm not going to mention any of those big things lumbering or jumping or slumping into theaters near you very soon (like now!). I'm going to write about something else. I'm gonna blow your mind with excruciatingly intense observations about life and love and broken fences. I'm gonna ride the river of alliteration until you can't comprehend catchy catch phrases from fuming fat philanderers doing their laundry. It's going to be amazing, arty and--amazing! There will be old friends, new sexy neighbors and a dog that seems as though he might be trying to communicate with humanity. And it will all be yours for just a few minutes of your time. That's all we ask!
Isn't it exciting? The big summer sweeps Uber-column from Matt Worley.
Coming soon to a computer screen near you.
Matt Worley was thinking about writing a critique on the new electronic music trend, but realized it's all just dance music for drug addicts--and do we need to focus our energy on that kind of stuff?