Domo arigato, Mr. Row-boat-o

Ok, it’s a premature judgement, but I’m pretty damn certain I just sat through not only the best, but indeed the ONLY HALF DECENT episode of the O.C. for season three. It was AWESOME. Just when I’d completely given up hope and resigned myself to crap writing and dumb plot lines that really pushed the boundaries of realistic occurrences, (see Johnny plotline in its entirety, ahem) we get tonight episode. Someone FINALLY hired a decent writer and director for the damn show. It was seriously almost back to the old days of season one, where Seth says funny things, Ryan brawls and Julie makes risqué remarks.

ENOUGH! Lest my praise be premature and the one-off nature of this glory taint the crap-fest that is season three.
I could tell you about my week, which in no particular order involved Ross Noble, Gnomeville, reversing into trees, buying tampons, hearing Khe Sanh over 40 times, a dead body, Pearl Jam’s latest album and the smash Queen musical We Will Rock You, but I’m sure that would just bore and confuse you.
Instead, I’m going to talk about Haruki Murakami. He’s my new favorite working author now that I did my Houellebecq phase, and he’s magic. Just plain gorgeous with words. It’s like poetry and prose and wistful nostalgia in a thrilling story, half dream half cutting take on advanced capitalist life.
Most likely illegal, I’m going to reproduce a paragraph or two here, just to give anyone who cares a sense of what he’s like. This is the opening few sentences of “Dance Dance Dance”.

     I often dream about the Dolphin Hotel
In these dreams, I’m there,  implicated in some kind of ongoing circumstance. All indications are that I belong to this dream community.
The Dolphin Hotel is distorted, much too narrow. It seems more like a long, covered bridge. A bridge stretching endlessly through time. And there I am, in the middle of it. Someone else is there too, crying.
The hotel envelops me. I can feel its pulse, its heat. In dreams, I am part of the hotel.

And so there you have, my latest thing – Murakami. Oh, and need I say it yet again dear readers: JACK TREVOR STORY. Buy this man’s work! Sure, he’s dead, there’s not much we can do, but he deserves at least to be posthumously recognized, like all great artists, unappreciated in life… seriously, ask for him at your local. Bookshop I mean. That’d be kinda weird if they had him on tap in the ’Deen.

Well, as usual lately, I have nothing productive to say really. I’d update more but I’d just be talking aboiut myself, or some inconsequential anecdote… when I have an opinion, damn right you’ll hear it. Until then, I’ll just keep moving forward in my Ryan Atwood life pathway: Musicals, Dark Broody Period, Unrequited Love, Awkward Love, More Brooding, Refusing to go back to the bad burbs, Love Fails, what next people? I need to walk the line. Because you’re mine. And never will be again. Well don’t think twice, hon, cos it’s allright. I love you all, in a shallow way, for the stepping stones you provide me. Get fucked otherwise.