After a rousing night out with friends on Thursday I decided to take yesterday off and play a bit of catch up. I spent the day in my boxer briefs, eating girl scout cookies and reading about sodomy and the Supreme Court’s more recent substantive due process holdings. [Side note: "Samoas" are not called "Samoas" by the local Girl Scout P&D folks, and are packed in 7 oz. boxes, as opposed to the standard 8 oz. box.]
I was pleasantly surprised a few weeks back upon discovering that there’s a running independent film series in town associated with the local art school, and that “The Fog of War” was showing. The venue the film series folks use is a beautifully restored silent film theater I’d been meaning to check out anyway. Though not necessarily an obvious Friday night date movie, I headed over with some friends and was glad I went. I’m still digesting it, to a certain extent, but in general I was pleased that the narrative didn’t degenerate into the kind of Hitchens-esque prosletyzing or the kind of myopic, hyperbolized revisionism that normally characterizes V-word “documentary.” This is not to say that either McNamara or LeMay came off particularly well. LeMay especially.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to meet up with P.F. in DC this weekend, and headed to Asheville — NC’s answer to Eugene, OR — to check out the town today as a bit of a consolation prize. I hadn’t really nosed around that bit of the state yet, and must say it’s quite pleasant, despite finding evidence of what must be one of the world’s few remaining Goa trance scenes. Good God. I had lunch with some friends, wandered about, and discovered an absolutely beautiful weekend hideaway, a find I mean to make full use of when time and money permit. Alex Haley, Margaret Mitchell, and Henry Kissinger can’t *all* be wrong. I just don’t think it’s possible…
