Last night I was supposed to be at rehearsal with Leah. Did you catch the word “supposed”? That’s good, it’s important, since I never actually showed up. Yes, for the first time in — maybe thirteen years? — I missed a band rehearsal, this time for no other reason than I had moved my appointments to my Google Calendar, and completely forgot to turn on the notifications.
All day long yesterday, I had this weird feeling, like there was a meeting I was supposed to be at, but couldn’t place it. And since I’m usually at such meetings with coworkers, and no one went anywhere, I realized eventually that wasn’t it. Then I got home and felt like I was missing a Fedora deadline, maybe. Also negative.
Note that at no time did I actually check my shiny new Google Calendar. Which makes it roughly 100% less effective when you don’t turn on any of the automatic geegaws.
Sat down to dinner with the family, and partway through, my cell phone rings. Sure enough, it’s Leah, and immediately I knew what I’d forgotten. Far too late, of course, to drive the 60+ miles to rehearsal. So that’s my sob story, smack my wrists and call me a bum.
On the plus side, today I took off from work, dropped the kids off at Grandma’s, and took Eleya to see Grindhouse. And it was fantastic, in a really awful, lurid way. Or maybe it was lurid in a really fantastic way, I’m not sure. In any case, it totally measured up to my expectations, and then some. I was really floored by how Tarantino’s feature, “Death Proof,” really succeeded on the level that matters for trhillers — caring about the protagonists — and not just once, but twice. (I can’t explain more without giving away details unnecessarily; just see it, as long as you have a strong constitution as far as movies go.)