Every morning I check my horoscope on Style.com. It's one of those frivolous things that I adore taking faux-seriously shortly after I wake up and still feel rather solemn. Occasionally, I peruse the "trends" just to make sure that I am still as unfashionable as possible. Sometimes, I am pleased. For instance, while "Edie's Sixties" and "New Frontier" are vying for the main stage in the theater of the absurd, I am positively tickled noir by "Back in Black," which is basically all I wear anyway.
Another positive trend is that the impossibly chic Emma Garman and I have managed to keep our agreement to see one new independent film per week going, and the selection for later today is Gus Van Sant's latest, Last Days. Last week we saw The Beat That My Heart Skipped, which I regret not discussing at greater length in this space yet (it's excellent). The other films that we've seen (also v.v. good) are Lila Says and My Summer of Love. Marcy Dermansky's review of the latter is absolutely revelatory: that film was shot without a script? oh. my. god.
Today is a beautiful day in New York, but I can only tell from looking out the window so far. Currently listening to Sade's Lover's Rock and drinking my third cup of black tea, which is just perfect.
Well, it's ciao for now, darling; I hope that your weekend is as stellar as you are...
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