11.09.23
Shelby and I went to see Sofia Coppola’s Priscilla. A real heartbreaker, unsurprisingly.
As one of the notorious yet unpaid promoters of AMC’s Stubs A-List, I proposed that we go to an AMC. I have been trying to save money lately, so I keep proposing movie hangs to my friends — I’m seeing Anatomy of a Fall with Sam and Nick on Sunday. I’m thinking about going to Killers of the Flower Moon on Saturday, but that will probably just be by myself. It’s a way to do an activity without having to “spend” any money — the subscription is accounted for in my budget (are you surprised I have a budget? So am I).
We met at the theater on 34th Street and sat in seats with entire airline tray tables attached to them — you could administer the SATs in there. We joked about the trailers and talked about our volleyball league, and then watched Cailee Spaeny and Jacob Elordi in one stomach-lurching moment after another. I hate to spoil it for you, but it ends with a devastating Dolly Parton needle drop — “I Will Always Love You.”
You don’t hear the Dolly version of that song as much, even though she wrote it. The Whitney Houston version has really transcended, become the default. But the Dolly version is so beautiful. The astonishing power of Whitney’s voice is the focal point of her cover. Dolly’s version is so tender and delicate. It’s a song that really aches. It’s under-appreciated.
Shelby and I left the theater talking about the tragedy of the story and the triumph of the movie itself, and parted ways on the corner of 34th Street and 8th Avenue. I opted to walk up to Columbus Circle to catch the A Train, because I sat for most of the day today.
I listen to Dolly’s “I Will Always Love You” on repeat as I walk north. It has one of those awful spoken interludes that you hear a lot in songs of the time (incidentally, another example of that that comes to mind is Elvis’ “Are You Lonesome Tonight?”), but it is mercifully short. I look around at the familiar landmarks of 8th Avenue: that bar where I went with that guy after we would go to the movies, the studio where I once took improv classes, the dive I went to one time with a friend I don’t really talk to anymore, right before the pandemic hit. I find my eyes brimming with tears against the cool November air, over nothing. I am a sorry opponent for Dolly Parton’s sweet serenade.
I love November. My mom always says it’s too gray and too brown, too cloudy and too dreary, but I love it. Mid-October through November is my favorite time of year. I don’t care that it gets dark early. I like the sharp briskness of the air. I like the way the sun hangs in the sky. I like walking with my hands in the pockets of my jacket, rather than stiffly swinging at my sides like an overzealous middle schooler. Everything makes sense to me in November. It’s a time I always feel most like myself.
Somewhere in the upper 40s, I opt to end the emotional torture, turn off repeat, and let my playlist resume. The Stop Making Sense version of Talking Heads’ “Take Me to the River” carries me to 57th Street with a stronger heel strike and an embarrassed affection for my own dramatics.
