I went to see the early showing of Superman last night. We were there almost 4 hours total. I’ve never went to an early showing, so I was pleased to see the people dressed up in tight, leotard, Superman garb, cheering and clapping. The movie was too long. The attempts at humor were unsuccessful. Parker Posey was at her worst (and I love her). Kate Bosworth’s acting was terrible and her character was pissy. Kevin Spacey and Brandon Routh were both fine actors in this movie. 
The love story between Lois Lane and Superman was complicated and tragic, depressing. I couldn’t help but make absurd connections between their love story and my own love life. Even though everyone else was cheering and excited, I left the movie feeling sad about the love story. I just couldn’t get over it. But, it’s Superman. Why do I even bother?
On the way home, I slowed the car for a fresh cat down in the road. The Russian insisted I pull over. He jumped out of the car. As he gingerly touched the cat, slowly, carefully, it began to breathe, gasp. I yelled from the car, “Watch out!” as a giant dodge truck dieseled passed him, not even slowing, maybe speeding up to swerve around him. (35 in a 15 mph.) The Russian carefully lifted the cat and took it to some nearby lawn. A matching white cat watched us from a ways off. The struck cat couldn’t close it’s mouth; it just gaped bloody and gasping. I was worried about loose bones and internal pockets where blood had gushed in, but the Russian insisted on petting it and trying to soothe it. “Isn’t there a pet hospital nearby?” he wanted to know. He got mad when I said that it’s probably going to die anyway. He kept petting it. He went between sad, then launched into tirades about stupid drivers and responsibility to living creatures, and then sad again.

I went to sleep thinking about settling and intimacy and character and leaving gasping cats to die in people’s lawns.

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