There's no explaining it. I didn't accomplish anything significant over the weekend, and didn't even complete the projects I planned. Okay, so I transplanted a few perennials and hauled in a load of horse manure from the College stables up on Old 3C. In fact, I probably overdid it just a bit, and the old hip joint is complaining today. But I slept like a rock; that probably accounts for my unwarranted positive outlook.
It sure wasn't the artistic content. Sunday night I stubbornly sat through "Death in Venice," the DVD of a movie that really ought to be seen on the big screen to appreciate Luchino Visconti's visual palette, Dirk Bogarde's sad deterioration as Aschenbach. Saturday night Gven and I endured "Dinner with Friends," a kind of third-rate updating of "Whose Afraid of Virginia Woolf" as filtered through Andi McDowell, Dennis Quaid, Greg Kinnear, and Toni Collette. Friday night was "Dead Man," a strange and sometimes funny Jim Jarmusch parody of old western movies with Johnny Depp in the title role. Nothing special.
Maybe it was the bike ride from Johnstown to Newark and back on the old railroad line turned into bicycle trail. Funny how it was flat on the way east and all uphill on the return trip west. It's a very nice trail, and lots of people were out there enjoying it on a pretty late-summer day. Mostly older folks and young families with kids, not the serious cyclists in their jazzy jerseys. Yeah, maybe it was the bike ride, or the ibuprofen afterward, that accounts for my improved attitude. Hope springs eternal.
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