Still haven't gone to the cottage. Soon, my friend. Soon.
Patricia had won two tickets to "Amy", the documentary about the life and death of Amy Winehouse. Those tickets came in today's mail, so we decided to go to the Oxford Theatre tonight to see it.
I was not a fan of Amy Winehouse's. Her music just didn't do it for me, but it was impossible for me not to notice her downward spiral in recent years, and to know about her untimely death at 27. She's a member of the so-called "27 Club", which foolish people with nothing better to do believe is some kind of conspiracy in which talented young people in the arts die at the age of 27, apparently in droves. People, if they wanted to, could device a "25 Club", or a "57 Club", or a "42 Club", if they wanted to, but it would disrupt the carefully-constructed conspiracy they have concocted and which they share. But I digress.
I did not love "Amy", but I am not sure if I was meant to. The story is sad: how a talented young woman with a robust future, achieved some success; and the same addictions that had dogged her when she was unknown, became amplified. People enabled her addictions, while others were afraid that the gravy train that she conducted would go off the rails, leaving them without a meal ticket. This film should be required viewing for anybody who wants to be a star. The price is probably not worth it.
We got back home. I got an email from the phone company that my latest bill was available and I had but to log on to my account to see what the amount owed is. The problem is, the account # I thought I had, is not registered, which is hardly a surprise because I don't recall registering it. But when I try to register it, I get nowhere because it wants an email address, but I don't know what GD email address to specify. I managed to call an automated number and find out what I owe, but I am afraid to pay from my bank account to that account number for fear it will not be paid to the correct account. My goodness, what an ache in the anus this is.
Little things are starting to get to me. I need to leave town for a while. As soon as my latest Frank column is done, I'm out of here.
See you tomorrow, my lovelies.
Bevboy
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