Here in the New World

My little melatonin experiment last night was a comedy of errors. I took a half milligram on an empty stomach, with the aim of getting 3 hours of sleep, but maybe I mistimed it. I couldn't sleep for a half hour or more afterward, despite thinking I felt some effect. So I got up, had a banana (helps you dream, I rationalized), some yogurt (helps you sleep, I rationalized) and another half milligram of melatonin (which better damn put me out like a light, that's no rationalization.)

Slept six hours, resetting my alarm somewhere in the middle (incorrectly), waking up around 8am. Oh well.

I went out, had some blueberry pancakes and a decaf, and took a nap around 10:30am. And that was my only nap of an not-too-well-planned day. It's 10:45pm, and I'd hoped to settle down for a nap around now, but despite feeling a little sleepy throughout the day, my nap attempts have either been unsuccessful or preempted by ill-timed errands, like my trip to the DMV in the late afternoon to get a new drivers license. I booked a hot tub, tried to nap beforehand, tried to nap while in the drying-off room afterward (which worked like a charm last time), but didn't succeed. I'll try again soon, but my hopes aren't high.

As long as I'm in the New World, I thought, I might as well go see the recent movie of that name. The reviews sounded good. Towards the end of this seemingly endless film, I seriously considered walking out. Some girls were laughing in the back, and I'd ordinarily consider that the height of rudeness, but in this case I could sympathize. I could have snuck out, and maybe snuck into see some of Capote. (I love Phillip Seymour Hoffman. Colin Farrell doesn't really push my buttons.) So why didn't I? It finally came to me, in the last 10 minutes: you don't walk out of a classical music concert. It's boorish. And that's the kind of flick it was. It might have made a great silent film, with an organist down in front telling you what to feel at every point, in case it wasn't obvious. Not that there was all that much to feel -- I doubt there was a wet eye in the house when the credits started rolling. It's lushly beautiful in a Barry Lyndonesque sort of way. But my reaction to it was somewhat like my reaction to Barry Lyndon. You want to grab the director by the shoulders and beg for mercy: "OK, OK, I admit it: you're a goddam certifiable genius! Now MOVE ON."