I'm bored dear readers. I find myself so very often bored these days, and partially this is one reason I'm writing again. Master and the Margarita, my faithful, humble, dear old bloggie, where I get to hum drum, where I do my crappie talkie, is where I return. So where have I been? Not too far, if we get down to actual distances and scales. My notice is on, while I'm looking around for a place to stay before my new job assembles. It's one end of the town, where I'm told I have to be trained, before I shift to the official badlands, which is another tiny headache.
Life's been inexorably obscure, and hectic, but that in slight relativity. I'm trying to keep the old friends, as I move on to make some new. But existentially speaking, it all seems futile, for what I crave is a bed, and when I prop my tired head on it, all sorts of stories fill the vacuum, and I am unable to sleep. It's when exhaustion comes, that I'm slipped into the sweet realm of obscurity, before I'm woken up to see a steaming tea. When I manage to sip the darn lemon, it's no more than a warm, pointless, tea, quite unbearable, to be honest.
So I've picked on a not-so-very-peculiar hobby of finding good films off lately, and there's a dirty shop, but very conveniently positioned in Pallika, where I suggest you ought to head. The filthy establishment is classy, because hacks of my brood are forever there. The taste of the flick collection is pretty decent. The guy charges 200 buck -- ok, ok, I know you'll say I'm being ripped -- but this guy is very firm and stubborn about his film rates. But it's here that I've discovered Kubrick, Coen Brothers, Polanski, Allen, Godard and Bergman. And this lately expensive obsession is what's treating me so well, for me tell the tale. If you're there that side, check out shop number 34, and it's here where you'll find stuff where I have not been able to find since some while. The asshole at the counter is not the friendliest, but if you show him that you've got a bit of dough, he'll be your lapdog for the hour, and will also take you to his dingy attic and show you where the entire movie booty is.
From the street side book stalls, I picked up Stephen King's Different Seasons, Anne Rice's Body Thief, and Playboy's Book of Wit and Satire, some different stuff to keep the mind in wit, while doing the rounds. Not been very good, but not the worst.