It wasn't the observation of a smart aleck
but that of a truth-lover or a statistics-lover*
Home alone, for some reasons.
First stop, kitchen. There must be bread, there must be bread. There is. It's my lucky day, for there's a dozen of eggs, and there's ham, still sealed. I said lucky, therefore there's Ovaltine, and milk, instant coffee.
The eggs must be fried, a bit toasted. Its edges must be crisp. The ham will be fried as well. On the bread will be mayonnaise. Bread ham egg bread into the oven. Four minutes. The time it takes to heat the water and prepare my drink. Five teaspoons of Ovaltine, half a teaspoon of milk and a quarter teaspoon of instant coffee. Every time I concoct this, the taste is different.
Done.
Two DVD's for me to watch: "The Notebook" (adaptation of Nicholas Sparks's novel) and "Closer" (adaptation of Patrick Marber's play.)
The Notebook. Who's that girl? She's sickly sweet, but charming. Well, she has a very pretty face that becomes prettier the longer you look. Great smile. I like this young lady. She's the only thing I like about this film. She is the character. Is that what you call "good casting?"
Closer. I'm an actor bigot. There are instances when I decide whether to watch a film or not depending on the actors in it. Don't like Julia Roberts. Not excited about Natalie Portman. There's no harm in trying, I can always press the stop button. In two scenes, the conflict's built. Good. There seems to be a promise of a sex scene. Good. (What am I talking about, there's always promise of sex in Hollywood films, and there's always Penthouse's Caligula upstairs if I want porn.) Do I like this film? Do I find it unable to reach its potential? How do I say something intelligent about this? I wish I could see, or read the original play.
My mother must be home by lunch time, or I'll have to order something and I hate spending money on things I could've not spent on.
A whole afternoon at home. There's the piano. After a year of practicing, I still can't play Fur Elise perfectly. And that should be an easy piece. I may not even be worth being called a hobbyist.
A helicopter crash. Mother's not yet home. What a shame. I should learn how to cook rice.
What a desperate day. I'm happy about my sandwich and hot chocolate. The films I've watched are entertaining. At least my fingers are complete and I can read notes. I have something to look forward to.
* J.D. Salinger, For Esmé--with Love and Squalor
First stop, kitchen. There must be bread, there must be bread. There is. It's my lucky day, for there's a dozen of eggs, and there's ham, still sealed. I said lucky, therefore there's Ovaltine, and milk, instant coffee.
The eggs must be fried, a bit toasted. Its edges must be crisp. The ham will be fried as well. On the bread will be mayonnaise. Bread ham egg bread into the oven. Four minutes. The time it takes to heat the water and prepare my drink. Five teaspoons of Ovaltine, half a teaspoon of milk and a quarter teaspoon of instant coffee. Every time I concoct this, the taste is different.
Done.
Two DVD's for me to watch: "The Notebook" (adaptation of Nicholas Sparks's novel) and "Closer" (adaptation of Patrick Marber's play.)
The Notebook. Who's that girl? She's sickly sweet, but charming. Well, she has a very pretty face that becomes prettier the longer you look. Great smile. I like this young lady. She's the only thing I like about this film. She is the character. Is that what you call "good casting?"
Closer. I'm an actor bigot. There are instances when I decide whether to watch a film or not depending on the actors in it. Don't like Julia Roberts. Not excited about Natalie Portman. There's no harm in trying, I can always press the stop button. In two scenes, the conflict's built. Good. There seems to be a promise of a sex scene. Good. (What am I talking about, there's always promise of sex in Hollywood films, and there's always Penthouse's Caligula upstairs if I want porn.) Do I like this film? Do I find it unable to reach its potential? How do I say something intelligent about this? I wish I could see, or read the original play.
My mother must be home by lunch time, or I'll have to order something and I hate spending money on things I could've not spent on.
A whole afternoon at home. There's the piano. After a year of practicing, I still can't play Fur Elise perfectly. And that should be an easy piece. I may not even be worth being called a hobbyist.
A helicopter crash. Mother's not yet home. What a shame. I should learn how to cook rice.
What a desperate day. I'm happy about my sandwich and hot chocolate. The films I've watched are entertaining. At least my fingers are complete and I can read notes. I have something to look forward to.
* J.D. Salinger, For Esmé--with Love and Squalor
