Minorities and margaritas
Sometimes during the summer when the humidity is at its thickest in the evening and you’re at the train station near my house, above the street and overlooking the ocean, there’s a certain flavor to the air of salt water and someone’s barbecue that reminds me very much of rural Massachusetts. Once you get down to the sidewalk, though, it’s the same Brooklyn I’ve been living in for a couple years now.
After stopping by our usual Mexican place for their excellent strawberry margaritas and Monday night specials, Spencer and I caught the much-discussed Minority Report. I recommend it, despite a certain lack of subtelty I’ve come to associate with PKD (the religious imagery in particular was a little heavy handed for my taste) and a surprisingly uncomplicated moral-of-the-story sort of ending that left things a bit sour-tasting. Criticisms aside, it’s worth watching - the film is a luscious and startlingly plausible vision of 2054. The obligatory ridiculous cars and invasive identification technology are present, of course, but the interiors in particular were convincingly normal. Fifty years from now you may have your eyes scanned entering a subway, but the seats will still be that ugly orange plastic.
I love my pitiful air conditioner more than ever when I come home to an unbearably hot kitchen and a lukewarm beer (not to mention the insufferable tease of finding a box of midol in my medicine cabinet that turns out to be EMPTY), but my bedroom is blessedly cool. Or less hot, anyway. I’ve also got this mysterious new mini-fridge deposited on my doorstop this morning by my landlord without explanation. It seems to work, so I’m thinking maybe I’ve got a new bedside table and source of cold things that doesn’t require venturing out of myblessedly less-hot bedroom. Score!
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