Where do they come from and I'm extremely worried about BLOOD OF A POET (67)

Went out to see current fan-favorite Ra Ra Riot last night. I'll say this about the band: this is the last time you're going to be seeing them at a venue as small as Neumo's. These guys are strong performers who produce a sound that is catchy to both uneducated music dullards (many whom put on their party pants and white polos and came out last night) and music dorks a like. The opening two bands were pretty poor (though I think Cut Off Your Hands may have life on album) but Ra Ra Riot stepped up on stage and the crowd was instantaneously riveted. Fists pumping, hands clapping, even a few rare Seattle dancing pockets opened up - all around pretty entertaining.

My question is this though: why is it that one of every five audience members at every concert I ever go to is twelve feet taller than me? Seriously, whenever I go to shows, it's like the Big and Tall Convention has convened and all of a sudden I'm the dwarf in the crowd. And I don't get it.

I don't get how a man of fairly average height (somewhere around 5'10" in my mind) walks around all day feeling at least a functioning part of the height scale, at times even feeling slightly tall, and then I head off to a concert and suddenly every other fan in attendance is 7 feet tall.

Where in the fuck do these people come from? What draws them from their high-ceilings and basketball hoops directly to the spot in front of me at a concert? Are they in hiding? Am I just a lot shorter than I've always convinced myself and when I'm surrounded by a crowd this is just highlighted? Or is my slouchy, slouchy posture finally pushing me in to the ground?

These questions may never be answered. But just know, they're out there.

I'm really, really worried about the next three Criterion films. I put in Blood of a Poet (67) last night and was asleep almost instantaneously. It's a French film from the 1930s that focuses on the connection between artists and their creations and from minute one I was completely baffled as to why anyone would ever put this sort of early 20th century film class final project on the screen. The first few scenes involved this:

- A door handle jostling for five minutes. I shit you not.

- A man mouthing words to a "statue" that was just a woman painted white.

- An exploding water mirror.

- Spinning mesh heads.

- A lot of me dozing off.

Sure sounds like your run of the mill mushroom trip, but I'm telling you this is boredom writ large.

Now this first one is only 55 minutes, and I'm already struggling. What am I going to do with the next two far lengthier entries? I guess we'll find out.

Friday: Blood of a Poet (67)