Poor Little Heather.

Ah, another glorious day at the Angelika yesterday. It wasn't too terribly bad. We have eight screens and two of them were videos. I don't mind running videos. I mind running the one I shall refer to as Little Bitch Projector. Jeremy insists it's because the bulb is about to go, and I'm sure it is, but I'm also pretty sure it hates me. It misfired all goddamn morning long until I had my cell phone out calling Jeremy, threatening it bodily harm, and then oh, it stayed on. And I built up a movie with more success than usual (keeping it smooth and even and happy) until I ran into the last reel that was all broken apart and putting it on was not only a chore but totally wrecked my build-up chi. It looked less messy than I anticipated at any rate.

I got to sneak in a couple chapters of my book at the very end, which helped a little.

And Tokyo One was very yummy, no surprise there. We started with meat samples, moved on to hibachi grill, then had them setup a shabu shabu pot (for cooking beef, chicken, shrimp, squid, etc), then cracked some crab legs and slurped udon noodles (I so miss my cheap noodle stalls in Tokyo, comfort food heaven), and then polished off a couple mini desserts. We both nearly gagged on the eggy creme brulee (yes, you can fuck that up, apparently), but the chocolate-dipped strawberries, cheesecake and fresh pineapple were plusses. Pluses? Anyway. Stuffed like peppers. And I stayed away from the bean desserts, they always kinda scared me in Tokyo, too. I didn't make the mistake but several did, that all the yummies in a bakery shop are not like yummies in a bakery shop here. Some have BEANS in them, for god's sake. Nothing like expecting cream in your pastry and being met with BEAN PASTE. Especially in the AM. Ugh.

Last night we went to Denton for the night; my parents gave me a real pasta maker, I am so excited to be able to make pasta that isn't the thickness of play-dough. I need to go read the directions and summon energy for making pasta. They also gave me the final installment in the Norton books, "The Cat Who'll Live Forever." Peter Gethers is a writer/screenwriter who, in the late 80s, became the owner of a little Scottish Fold who has become quite famous. The cat travels the world with him and sits on his shoulders; Gethers goes into hotels for meetings and leaves the cat to frolick outside. He can be gone for hours, come out and call his name once, and he appears. (If other try calling him it amounts to very little). He can also walk with him everywhere, sit with him at restaurants (Europeans are way more into this, apparently), fly with him on planes, you name it. As far as mingling with celebrities, he once shat in the bathtub (there was no litter box and this was his Plan B training) to the horror of Roman Polanski and Harrison Ford while the three of them were finishing the script for Frantic. And when Anthony Hopkins requested that Gethers bring Norton to his film premiere afterparty, Lauren Bacall asked Peter Gethers, "I don't know who you are or why you're here, but Tony Hopkins is an old friend and I'd like to chat with him. So why do I have to stand in line behind your fucking cat?" Apparently Anthony Hopkins and Norton had quite a crowd going. Anyway, though, this is the third and final book, which as you may have guessed, is going to be all about Norton DYING. Jesus. Pass the razor. I really want to read it, but I really really don't. Fuck.

My sister got me the first season of "House" on DVD, which after reading about Norton dying, should be a stroll through the park. At least some of them are upbeat. ish.