Aria Condizionata

Hey, you know what blogs solved? The problem of wanting to write self-indulgent stuff to an imagined (but hopefully) real audience that would never appear. They appear, now.

I don't consider myself a blogger, though. I'm still just a reader. Internet idiots haven't changed that word, yet. If they do, you can be sure it won't need an explanation in terms of intellect or creativity.

Back to the first paradox, some people have been talking about crying lately. A few friends of mine said they cried at the movie Up, and not even just once; a few times. At the beginning, the end, and somewhere in the middles.

I saw Up. Cried not. I've broken up with a few people in the past few years, been to a few weddings, and one funeral. No tears. Had a falling out with a good friend. Fell back in. No tears again, even though it hit me.

Still, there are two things that I can say retain a consistency in soliciting the waterworks:

1. Young men who are confined to wheelchairs because their legs won't work (or are gone). I almost cry at this because the thought of confinement to a chair in the prime of one's life is too much for me to fathom. Note that women in the same situation (literally, yeah) don't arouse this same feeling, maybe because of an amputation fetish (tmi)?

2. The smell of air conditioning. Because this brings me back to summers at my house when I was young, when no one was around to play with, when my parents were gone, pre-internet, pre-video games, and it was just me playing with fire. I would lay my face next to the air vent, sucking in that chemical world of little bits of smell things floating, entering my nose, enervating me, me floating, me in my nose, flying through the air, floating through the house.