Nappus Interruptus

Today has been Sunday. I walked across the street to the ATM at the World Trade Center then hurried back into the tunnel where I had previously seen a kiosk selling toiletries. I ran out of shaving cream last week but my work hours had since prevented me from getting to the store in time to get it. I haven't shaved in a week. But today, today I would get my shaving cream.

Anyway, so after completing my only real goal for the day, I walked to the editing room and got to work.

Every day I haul my laptop back and forth in my black DaKine backpack. At The Sugar Factor I set the computer up on the Ikea shelf just to my left. This is what it looks like:


After a few hours of cutting I realized that I was just too tired to do anything worthwhile. Editing is a physical thing for me. As some of you know, I cut standing up. On every project I have the show build my console high so I can stand. I can't work sitting down. Can't. Won't. So if I don't feel rested then the "performance" of editing suffers. Especially when it comes to action scenes. Think of it as dance. Your body is involved, too. I don't mean to sound precious about it. But that's just the way I do it. Legendary editor Walter Murch is the preeminent evangelist for working this way. I tried it. I liked it.

On the way home I stopped in a market and bought some milk. I know molokwa. But there are the per cent variations to deal with. I was able to say "adeen - point - pyet" (one point five). So I got the low fat milk I wanted. Customers in line behind me got into the spirit of things and tried to coach me on the proper Russian words for low fat. It was actually quite sweet. Kind of a meeting of peoples separated by language but joined by milk.

But I also needed butter. The clerk didn't speak a word of English. And I don't yet know the word for butter. Eventually I saw a container which to me seemed promising as butter. I saw the cow. I saw the friendly-looking dairy matron. I thought it was butter. I pointed urgently. The clerk added it to my bag. Turns out it was sour cream.


Back at home I was lounging on the couch watching Glenn Ford in TERROR ON A TRAIN. But there was a palpable dearth of terror on the train and I found myself dozing. I was startled awake by my cell phone. Marius was disproportionately excited to find out that AMERICAN GANGSTER was showing at the Kino Oktobr in the English language theater. My lovely, languid nap escaping out the window, I agreed to go to the movie.

At the concession stand, an older homosexual heard Marius and I speaking and he jumped in to our conversation. An American who lives in Chevy Chase, the man began railing against Bush and Cheney. More sympathetic I could not be. But not every conversational tidbit is an invitation to create an anti-Administration pun. Or maybe it is. At least for him it was.

The tiny theater was packed. But ten minutes into the movie something snapped, the screen went blank, and the house lights went up. No one came to our aid. People milled.


Finally Marius and I set out to find someone of some authority...


We found someone. They ran into the booth. Then someone else arrived. Then the first guy ran back out and five minutes later he returns with two more guys. Finally, a conclave of six or seven people are gathered in the booth. Amongst them they were able to get it sorted out because 20 minutes later the movie cranked up again. And you know what? It was pretty good. Here are the credits.


So don't let me forget to tell you about Father Frost and Snow Girl. More about them later but suffice it to say, they're much cooler than Santa Claus and a bunch of annoying elves.

Now. Off to shave.