This grey and cloudy Sunday morning, I’m listening to Andrea Boccelli because I’m a sentimental and romantic old fool. If you know what that means, you know what that means; if you don’t, then I can’t explain.

I went to see Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire last night with about 1,000 teenagers out on dates. First, let me say this is one grandparent who thinks it would be inappropriate for my little grandkids to go to this movie because it’s just that scary and dark. I jumped in my seat at least twice and that’s pretty good for “gotcha” movies. Although I’ve read all the books and seen all the movies, it bothered me that this is not a stand-alone movie. You have to know the “backstory” to enjoy this movie. If you’ve just dropped onto earth on your galactic travels and don’t know about the Harry Potter phenomena, you’d be lost as hell. For that matter, the British accents left me scratching my head a time or two — wtf? wha’d he just say? Huh? — and the fact that the story line requires whispered conspiratorial conversations makes the matters worse, imho. The movie’s special effects are, well, wizard. I’m sure that there are young readers out there who are outraged that not every single bit of the book is deeply explored in the movie, but the cuts didn’t bother me much and it was too long a book to expect anything else. Besides, I’m more accustomed to seeing my favorite books butchered by the film remake. That was one of the things we loved about Lord of the Rings — that it stayed pretty true to the books as well as it could be done. I’m still a little hacked off about the complete cut of anything about Tom Bombadill, but that’s fat that’s been chewed thoroughly.

Just finished a lengthy IM with MB in Memphis. She’s such a wonderful woman and I care so very much for her and about her. Earlier this week, at Sue Moss Sullivan’s art show house party, I just had to call MB and tell her about the highly textured work. She would love that stuff. MB says she’s too busy moving into her new house and getting ready for a family Thanksgiving there to do much in the way of creative work, but she also said she has her loom set up in a sunny nook in the up stairs and that image melts my heart. We “chatted” about this and that, but the topics seemed less important than the connection, if you know what I mean. Anyway, love ya, MB.

Speaking of a former, I’m not just single again, but without any love interests at all. Not even anyone I’ve picked out as a “next ex”. I was journaling today about my love life and it seems that a bunch of things have conspired to make me give up some of my adolescent behaviors. Quel Catastrophe! Imagine John Long grown up. No. It’s too much. John, not smoking? Exercising? Eating right? Cooking for himself? No. No. No. It couldn’t be! Don’t you all realize that I should be drowning in self pity, self loathing and substance abuse? Could it be that my adolescent angst has finally run its course? No. No. No. I resist this with every fibre of my being. I’m still the oppositional kid with too much smarts for his emotionally stunted heart and a mouth full of acid sass. What would I be like if I grew up? What would that look like? How would it feel and smell and taste and sound like? Will I have to give up the Miata for a hybrid? Nah. Surely not. Nevermind.

The voices in my head intervened here and I have to stop and come back to this. The idea of growing up and stopping smoking … well, it’s just too much for me to handle this early in the day.