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More Interruptions

I was tinkering on a post that was going to be published here tonight, about the conclusion of the birdhouse project and the start of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, when the phone rang. It’s often a circus when my phone rings because I have a tendency to forget about it entirely and wander away from

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IOUs

Earlier this week, at approximately the same time that Crankenstein had a speaking engagement in front of an absurdly large audience, I received a message from someone who’d just read one of my reviews. He told me a bit about himself and wondered if he might recommend other movies for me to cover. His note

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Shakes the Clown

Many times over the past few months, I’ve wondered “What if the doctor’s wrong? What if I’m perfectly fine?” Intellectually, I know the neurologist is almost certainly right. It’s more complicated emotionally, as I’ve been reminded lately by some irritating developments. Take this morning, for example. The witching hour seems to start around 4:30 am

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A Lost Day

Wednesdays are often my time to watch and then write about a TV movie, but much of today was lost to conversations with my sisters. I’d been on the phone with the middle one for 87 minutes — the running time of a typical Lifetime flick — when Crankenstein trudged in late. Earlier there’d been

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Freedom! ’90

Being an overly cautious sort, I’ve been reluctant to jump the gun in sharing some exciting news. Explaining just how meaningful this is will require a more introspective post in the future, because personal finance is a subject that — to the amusement of some and confusion of others — I’m quite passionate about. My

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Baby, I Don’t Care

Crankenstein requested another old movie tonight and I selected Jacques Tourneur’s Out of the Past, a quintessential noir she hadn’t seen before. There’s not much need to get into its plot, which exemplifies the genre. The title gives you the gist of it: Robert Mitchum’s Jeff Markham, a former gumshoe who got mixed up with

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Follow Your Arrow

You know those goofy quizzes where you get a point for each infraction you’ve committed? Things like playing hooky or joyriding, recreational indulgence in various substances, or killing a man in Reno just to watch him die? My score is probably equivalent to, or lower than, that of your average nun. I’ve never been drunk,

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Baby Steps

Night two of the return-to-melatonin experiment was slightly better than the first, for anyone keeping track at home. I wasn’t awake for hours at a time, staring into the darkness while imagining myself in a remake of Laura Branigan’s “Self Control” video, dancing unrhythmically while lip-syncing “I, I live among the creatures of the night.”*

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