watched the maddeningly romantic 'cinema paradiso' last night and cried my little eyes out. those italianos with their winking, curious little boys. something in it didn't sit right -- like all that the world needs is a kiss to stumble out of hate? ennio morricone did the soundtrack.

in my mad rush of film consumption, watched paul mccartney's buddy holly docu, which contains some amazing, shaky 8mm home video footage of a young holly (or holley if you go by tombstones) opening for elvis at his first gig. spends too much time dwelling on the backwardness of lubbock (which in this '80s BBC vision looks like any burnt brick midwestern dust town) which makes sense when you realize that good ole paul is DOING THE INTERVIEWING. all the hired hands, now beer gutted and still a prayin' that buddy will come back, look real nervous in their q&as. then there's keith richards, a charming interview always and so forthcoming about holly's influence on his guitar style. strum a strum strum strum.

speaking of which, i'm geeking out and reading the history of the rolling stones songs. every semi-serious flashback into rock's past either looks like MOJO's duochrome or stinks like rock n' roll hall of fame exhibit. there has to be a better way to deal with this stuff then rummaging through press clips and chatting up the mic placement boys. oh ya, there's VH1, where you just interview the talking head journos talking about rummaged clips...that they wrote. barf.

this is my remedy for the 700+ page mozart book i'm tackling which isn't at all bad since old gottlieb was into scatalogical humor and had a serious mindfuck from his daddy. the kitty kelley virus just jumps right in, doesn't it?