I got to see Casino Royale on Thanksgiving night. Daniel Craig is a good Bond; he’s more tortured, he’s suitably bulky (you’d have to have serious muscle to complete those never-ending chases and near-poisonings), there’s a glimpse of humanity underneath the quips and the smooth talking. The crazy fight and chase scene that starts the movie is amazing; the guy he’s chasing is played by one of the guys who started the whole Parkour thing, so he leaps up walls and poles and over fences with ease. And the Bond “girl” is smart and sassy. In short: Thumbs up.

I have also started a new workout program. I have a personal trainer named Maya who works with me at my home every day (whenever I want to, really). She only exists inside of my television, powered by my PS2, but she is fairly interactive. When I first put her disc on, I had to input my stats and take a short fitness test, and she has been creating unique work-out routines for me based on my abilities (not very many) and what I need to work on (lots). The best part about her not being real is that when she says stuff like “Work harder! Work smarter!” and “I want you to feel muscle fatigue with this,” I can curse at her and she can’t hear me. I don’t think I could afford the kind of personal trainer that would let me spit at her, “Fuck you, I’m doing it!” Maya is always nice to me the next time I see her, telling me that she went out dancing last night, and that the skyscraper-loft setting is her favorite place to work out in the city. Good ol’ Maya.

On Friday, I got to see Donovan for free (from winning that costume contest) and I brought a friend with me. We decided to meet out in front of the theater, and my goodness, it looked like I'd be rocking out with my parents and their peers all night. The theater was almost full, and the crowd was very, very enthusiastic. Donovan had just two backing musicians; a bongo player and an upright-bass player. Donovan was, well, Donovan: He wore all black, has long hair (kind of mullet-y), has that dreamy Irish/Scottish accent, and still talks like he's a sort of mystical elven/Viking love god. A couple of times his back-up musicians left the stage and Donovan sat cross-legged on this little platform covered with a rug he called his "magic carpet."

At first I was delighted at how much he embodied the whole hippie love and mysticism aesthetic -- I mean, everyone knows Donovan is the real deal, the original model. But then, and I almost hate to say it, but he started reminded me a little of Will Ferrell's tweedy bearded hippie professor character who can't stop talking about sex with his beloved. I must admit that I snickered a couple of times. For instance, Donovan spoke rapturously for five minutes about his guitar named Kelly, all the while stroking and caressing the guitar's body and neck. Apparently though the guitar was a mere ten years old, after he and "she" had written a love song together (which he played for us), she would "play anything." Gross.

The audience ate it up, however. There was a moment of excitement when a very high and/or drunk young woman cimbed up on stage between two songs and walked over to Donovan and kissed him (he kissed back, and was very laid back about the whole thing). A crew member quickly steered her backstage. After each and every song, random people throughout the audience would pop up and give personal standing ovations. Everyone sang along to every song, which Donovan encouraged. Though me and my friends felt like the show wouldn't have seemed out of place at a state fair, everyone around us was clapping and singing and hooting with glee. Donovan was loving it all. The fake encore was, of course, Mellow Yellow, and he had us sing the horn section (fun, but having actual horns would have been amazing).

Later that night, I enjoyed the Love tribute show at the Elevens more: The songs were better, there was a full band, and they sounded great. Yay, Love tribute band!

Holy crap, it's been an entire week since I posted. Sorry about that, y'alls.

Our trivia team won first place again last week. This time, when our name was announced, only a couple of people clapped, someone yelled, "We hate you!" and someone else yelled, "Stop coming!" They were kind of kidding ... kind of. It made me really snarky, and L and I kept saying comebacks quietly to each other, like, "Stop coming? Start winning!" and such. There's so much pressure being number one, with everyone being so jealous ... people just have no idea [tosses hair].

Today at the office someone set up a Nintendo Wii and I got to take a turn on it. We only got the sports game that comes with the console, so I boxed a coworker. It was pretty neato, and fun; we were definitely sweating by the end of our 3 rounds. The graphics are nothing special, though, and while it has the ability to go online and have you play other people remotely, no games will be available until well into 2007. I had thought my sister could buy one and I could buy one and we could beat each other up and stuff, but you'll only be able to do that right away with the PS3. And that fucker is $600. It's expensive because of the amazing graphics, but it also has stuff I have no need for, like super surround sound and a blu-ray disk player. My television is more than 10 years old and time has not been kind to it.

(Warning: If you have little patience for typical diary-like blog entries, skip this one.) My kittens are currently at the vet, prepping for their cute little furry hysterectomies. I had to drop them off before 8:30, so I had plenty of time to go and vote before work. My ward's polling place is in the gathering room of a local senior citizen apartment complex, so the lobby is always staffed by oldsters selling banana bread and coffee, which I appreciate. Election Day seems to be a highlight of their year, because there are people greeting you at every step.

Other news: I found a tiny kitten tooth in Hambone's fur on Sunday. Her adult-cat fangs are coming in and they are adorable. I took some flash photos of her mouth, because I am crazy.
Also, I have been pre-approved for a mortgage, for the amount I had figured on. I'm still not sure buying is the right thing for me to do. There are two people who work in my section of the office who bought houses as single people, and I want to talk to them about their experiences. I think one of them eventually sold his because he felt isolated. But I would like to have a little place to call my own, with enough space for my things. Not a ton, just 1000 sq. feet or so.

I live in a picturesque little New England town with a historically-preserved (for the most part) downtown. Every year the trees lining Main Street are festooned with white lights that are lit during the long winter nights. It makes the place look even more charming, and it classes up the joint, distracting the eye from the glowing plastic Bank of America signs and such. This year, however, Miss Killjoy the executive director of the Chamber of Commerce says that it's too expensive, costing about $15k a year for labor alone. No, she'd rather have "lighted banners" hanging from the old lampposts. Those lampposts already have chamber-created banners hanging from them, tacky buggers that say the name of the town and "Walk into something wonderful!", a slogan that makes me picture a Connecticut tourist walking right into a parking meter. I shudder to think what "holiday" banners this team would come up with. I normally don't concern myself with what the chamber does, but the lit-up trees help me make it through the winters. Even if it's miserable out, say it's cold and sleeting and there's no snow, the trees look all pretty and warm glowing in the fog. And they want to keep the branches bare and gray. Also working against me? The town's Tree Committee, which wants to outright BAN strands of lights on the trees downtown, because they supposedly hurt the trees. Come ON people, these are little strings of lights, they aren't made of barbed wire, and they aren't dripping battery acid or something. Those people up there in City Hall are fucking it up for the people that's in the streets.