Now I want Natalie to wake up at 2:30. If she eats at 2:30 AM, that means she’s blotto by three, deep asleep. Last night I reached the end of my shift - 3:30 AM - without a feeding. I decided I’d just punch out and head to sleep. Laid her down in the bassinet . .

Wah!

Sigh. Wince. Freeze. Wait. Perhaps it’s just a passing wah. But no: Wah! And soon: wehhhhh! which is worse than wah, really. Wah you can placate. Weh usually means hunger, and unless I can unholster an udder on the spot, we’re in for a racket. Took her downstairs, heated up some bottled mom-juice, then fed her while watching “Freakazoid” on the Cartoon Network. Three-frickin;’ forty-five AM; why is this cartoon on now? Mind you, I was glad it was. So very, very glad. If all I had at 3:45 was infomercials, I’d order a ginzu knife and slit my throat.

Last night set a new record for baby-placation time: one feature film, half of an old short 40s movie, one Freakazoid cartoon. The feature, “American Movie,” was just a delight, in a completely depressing sort of way. (The subject of the movie has an online diary which indicates, among other things, that his Dream Project seems no closer to being made, and he’s still knocking back the sauce. Definition of a Wisconsin drunk: he packs beer in his suitcase when he takes a trip.) The 40s movie was a Spencer Tracy film about a Crusading Newspaperman. To reprise my early comment about watching movies not as entertainment but as cultural archeology projects: this film had three characters meet at a shooting gallery. A sidewalk shooting gallery. A little storefront with a counter - stroll up, pay your dime, take a few shots, win a cigar. I don’t know if these places really existed in big cities - but then again, if they didn’t, the scene would make no sense to the audiences of the day. If you put a scene like in a modern movie, it would stop the film cold; no one would believe such a thing existed.



It’s always humbling to read the notes one makes at 4 AM - what seems so insightful usually turns out to be convoluted or labored; what seemed so clever just looks cryptic. A few nights ago after I handed off Nat to my wife for the early morning shift, I tried to get some sleep - but I kept thinking about the movie I’d just seen, RKO 281. It’s a fictional account of the making of “Citizen Kane.” I liked it; the movie was smart, contained just enough John Malkovitch without being creepy, and cemented James Cromwell’s reputation as your go-to player for portraying deeply corrupted LA power brokers in the 40s.

Like most movies set in the period, however, everything looks, well, 40s. It’s akin to seeing a movie made in 2040 about 2000, and EVERYTHING looks like it was purchased in the Michael Graves section at Target. The look & feel of any era is a piecemeal thing; 1939 was not entirely streamlined, and not every office was paved with mahogany. That was one the comments I got up at 3:50 AM to write: “The 40s always look so 40s.” I think that’s what I meant.

The second comment, concerning Welles’ vendetta against Hearst, makes less sense: “Men whose accomplishments are merely artistic will always have their revenge on those whose deeds are merely financial” I wrote, and this was clearly an indication that I was entering the delirium stage of the morning. Although if everyone else at the dinner table has had a few cocktails, this might pass as a witticism. It would be improved, or ruined, by adding "and vice versa." Depends on how drunk everyone is, I suppose.

Then the third comment: according to the movie, Welles knew that “Rosebud” was Hearst’s pet name for his mistress’ genitalia. If true, it not only shows how much Welles was asking for it, but it cheapens the movie somehow; it seems like very much the act of a 25 year old, thinking that reducing every motivation to sex constitutes a particular insight. The phrase I found waiting for me this morning: “reducto ad pudendum.”

Now that one I’ll claim.