The remake of The Omen is exactly the same as the original The Omen frame by frame. Only the music is different (but excellent) and the whickwhickwhicking of giant bat wings in the distance sound that used to be Damien's leitmotif was taken out which kind of made me sad because I always used that noise around The Surfer when he was being naughty. Other than that it was thoroughly enjoyable and the addition of Mia Farrow as the Satanic nanny was brilliant and of course meta.
Meta is such a literary hipster term that I am rather ashamed I used it but there you go.
I had to drive to the fake fake doctor nurse this morning to give more blood because I believe she totally fucked up my thyroid meds. My thyroid has not worked for 30 years and I've taken the same wee amount of levothyroxine for 30 years with perfect results and she ups and decides to increase it by half. Dumbass. I think this may be the reason I've been so tired the past few weeks. I have never been this tired ever in my life and yes I have had a lot going on but I've always been an extremely high energy person. Now I can barely turn over in bed.
On my way to fake fake doctor nurse I passed The Junction which is now a coffee shop inhabited by the people who use the methadone clinic on Wednesdays and Saturdays. I always see the inhabitants lolling about outside. I think they hold AA and NA meetings there at least I hope they do. The funny/not/funny thing about The Junction is that it used to be a strip club called Sugars and my friend Cathy St. Augustine used to be a dancer there and she told me that the owner kept paying the girls in cocaine instead of money to keep them there to keep the drugs rolling through the house. The last time I saw Cathy she had two black eyes and she gave me her childrens' birth certificates because she was afraid that someone was going to kill her. I still have them. This was when The Surfer was just six months old.
The reason I can spot the methadone clinics and inhabitants when I see them is because when I was first divorced and lived in Rat City aka West Seattle in the creepy duplex a girl named Candy and her boyfriend slash pimp slash biker named Gaylord moved into the apartment attached to mine. Candy and I became friends. She was a prostitute and worked part time as a maid for rich women and she'd steal their fancy shoes then return them to Nordstrom for cash. Nordstrom was famous in those days for their easypeasy return policies. Every Saturday Candy had me drive her to this place so she could get something something I can't remember what I had to take her but I didn't mind. It took her a year to tell me I was taking her to get methadone. I never judged her for being a prostitute slash maid slash thief I don't know why she thought I'd judge her for being on methadone or anything else. Her father was a famous senator a big wig in Washington D.C. He still is. The last time I saw Candy she was begging on the freeway near my house when I drove home from the factory. We waved at each other then I never saw her again either.
SIDE NOTE: I will never judge you for any of your addictions. Never. Ever.
I am tired tired tired of this all of this darkness and crime and sadness and poverty and danger.
I can't wait for December.
Hello Darklings. It is Christmas in my head all the time now.