No pictures today.

Barely any words. I went to see the most un-Woody Allen film Woody Allen has ever written and directed tonight: Midnight in Paris.

I'm not sure what it was a love song to, or even if it was coherent enough to really be a love song, but it was...sweet. Not a word I associate with Woody Allen, really.

I'm biased; I love films about Paris, I love films about writers, and there was quite a bit of wisdom in there for writers (and even more for people who love Paris), so I was bound to love it. And that guy who played Hemingway...I am in awe. How he kept his face straight while he delivered those lines I will never know.

It was lovely, really. A good cinematic choice. I'm glad I went. I generally don't regret movies (even if the only thing I get from it is a strong determination never to see another one like it again) but this one was special. I will remember it for a long time.

You have to know that if I ever got the chance to run away to Paris...I would so be gone. If I were standing in front of you, you'd be sucking contrail before the sentence, "Hey, Surly Knitter, would you like to move to..." even got out of the invitee's mouth. I don't even care that I can't speak French. I'll learn.