About a boy...

About a boy….

An older Hugh Grant pulled me out of a slump this evening. Gray hair, a few wrinkles weather his face like a bit of tarnished chrome on an Alfa Romeo. Beautiful and stylish, but extravagant and unnecessary. And a more real Hugh Grant, if reality echoes a Nick Hornby novel with its own perfectly buoyant soundtrack, a real Hugh Grant makes the perfect shallow blank of a man slated for a moment of humiliation followed by easy redemption. But I suck in the pretty things, the allure of London, and even the hippie who tries vomit covered suicide before finding a balding and earnest activist for a very special Christmas lunch. Christmas lunch?

Movies, and I’ll say it to be obvious, allow anyone to feel like happiness is only two hours away. And it almost is. Two hours can change your life, or at least help you take your eyes off the ground long enough to focus on something else, something brighter.

Echoing the words of a woman I met last year who like a Hornby book recognizes the events of her life through songs (good songs)… Tonight, I wish it would snow.