Paper lanters, big ideas, pictures of animals in their natural habitats, really good plays, well composed photographs, stories about saddness and movies about things I never dreamed of doing...and falling in love.
I would really like to meet Garrison Keilor, provided I had enough in me to keep him talking for a good two hours. I'd also like to meet myself in ten years, provided he had enough to keep me interested for two hours.
The Reckoner from Radiohead's IN RAINBOWS has been playing in my head for the past month straight. I just found LIFE ON MARS by David Bowie, which may send me into the archives. Bob Dylan is another late development, and for all everyone says about him, I've only scratched the surface of his music.
I've fallen in love with the men and women of PIXAR, most notably Brad Bird. I was knocked on my ass by LA VIE EN ROSE. I am peeing my pants awaiting THERE WILL BE BLOOD, and I'm really curious about NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN. In the long run, my mind is spinning at the thought of WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE, and I hope Jeunet gets to make LIFE OF PI. Anything he does will be lovely regardless.
I see what I see while passing between the refrigerator and my bedroom. I don't really have time for you television. You give me sports, bullshit, and DVD's. I use you for nintendo more than for your true lot in life. Then again, what is that? You're a flickering light box.
The Plays of Wallace Shawn are really surprising, and amazing. I'm one foot into the water with CHUCK DUGAN IS AWOL, by Eric Anderson (brother of Wes). I still can't and may never finish 100 Years of Solitude, and I am weeding my way through the goofy vernacular of Michael Chekhov. All of these books are in my bag right now.
Michael Donahoe. Thus far he seems to have found it all. And Bill Walsh, may he rest in peace. And my grandfather, may he rise again a disembodied corpse to seek payment for the sins committed upon him and all humanity. And Ghandi.