"You gave Jenny the huggies?"

I just saw a heartbreaking commercial for Pedigree dog food. The visual is of dogs behind fences in a shelter. The voiceover is in the first person. A dog saying, "I know how to sit, how to fetch, and how to roll over. What I don't know is how I ended up in here. But I know that I am a good dog. And I just want to go home." These sweet dog faces with their big wet eyes. Of course I just want to bring them all home and put them in my bed. Then what was the dog's voice says, "When you buy Pedigree we make a donation to help shelter dogs find loving homes. The Pedigree adoption drive. Help us help dogs." And there's this bleak, one-note-at-a-time guitar music being plucked in the background. It sure made me want to run out the door with paper currency fanned out of my fist and find all of those dogs and put shirts on them and hug them and hug them and hug them. I can picture myself slow dancing with one of the bigger ones. You know how you can put their paws on your shoulders and...well, I'm getting ahead of myself. I don't have a fistful of money. I don't have a yard. And I haven't done my hair yet. How could I possibly leave the house.

And then Jenny from The Muppets Take Manhattan was playing a bitchy mom in a courtroom scene on Judging Amy. Long gone are the baseball t-shirts and the early '80s running shorts. Replaced by a smart bobbed hairdo and what looks like pink bouclé. Long gone. I know that I am a good dog. And I just want to go home.

Labels: commercials, The Muppets Take Manhattan

posted by Mary Forrest at 1:17 PM | Back to Monoblog

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Long Goodbye

Loren got it started. The festivities were beginning to break up at Jonah's goodbye party, and Loren told me that reading the thread of posts between me and Krissy on the comedy theater listserv was what finally made it kick in for him.

She's leaving.

Tears started welling up in my eyes immediately. I was saying goodbye to Krissy for the night. But in a week or two, I will be saying goodbye to her altogether. She and Dorian are moving away. Starting a new and different life. Preparing for Baby Zoe. And Jonah is leaving for his new job and his new town and his new everything that same week. Smiling and happy. Excited about what comes next. As well he should be. My Jonah Bear. Leaving.

It's like everything is turning upside down at once.

Krissy and Becky and I went shopping today for Halloween supplies and costume ideas. It was so dismal and grey out. The sun never emerged. There was this blanket of gloom. A misty veil of sad autumn weather. Autumn is where the ending begins.

And I had this continual feeling of déjà vu. Mid-october. Goodbyes. I realized I was being taken back to the autumn of 2001, when I was leaving San Diego for Los Angeles and whatever the calendar pages held. My leaving was abrupt. My job offer came just as September 11 was happening. I had to move and start work all at the same time. I never had a goodbye party. I remember my last practice at the comedy theater. People didn't even stay after to have a drink with me. I left feeling sad and jilted. I went over to The Living Room and wrote in my journal and made friends with someone who thought I looked interesting.

Everything was so uncertain then. And I felt more alone than I ever have. Striking out on my own. But also being abandoned to it. With nearly no support system. Nearly no well-wishing. A motel room and a job waiting for me. And a notebook to write in in tiny pencil print.

We drove down drizzle-spattered streets that might as well have been those same 2001 streets. To the foot of Mount Helix. Through Clairemont. Down Sixth Avenue. Past Balboa Park. It was nighttime all day today. It was bleak and cruel and colorless. And looking forward felt like paying lipservice. Everything is ending.

So there I was at Jonah's party, drinking punch and catching up. And Loren mentioned that reading what Krissy and I wrote to each other on the listserv made it all hit home. And the tears started to come. And each time I tried to deny them, they welled up more insistently.

I love her so much. Krissy. I love that girl so much. Krissy and Dorian are family to me. I love them the way you love the ones you have to love. Only I don't have to love them, and I do anyway. Effortlessly. They are so special to me. I can't write a sentence that would do them justice.

As I was driving home, Wake Me Up When September Ends was playing on the radio, and tears began to sprout from my eyes. Spilling out onto my cheeks, despite my attempts to brush them away. My poor eyes have suffered so much this weekend. There is no hope that they will look pretty again before the new week begins. I wonder if they will ever look pretty again. Asian girls are ugly when they cry. It's a fact.

I always say this is my favorite time of year. The spate of months whose names end in "ber." The smell of fireplace aftermath. The seasonal goodwill. The preparation of turkey feasts. Days that get shorter. Nights that come sooner. Turtleneck weather. Long sleeve weather. Socks weather. Scarf weather. This used to be my favorite time of year. But it's almost as if its former favored status is its worst enemy. All the things that once made it sweet threaten to turn it bitter now. Memories of how such things ever became favorite. Spoiled. It gets so that looking back is distasteful. And how I used to glory in my nostalgia and melancholy. How less glorious when it all turns wry.

I have lived in Los Angeles for four years now. How can that be? Shouldn't I be graduating from something? Matriculating in some fashion? Shouldn't I have more signatures in my yearbook? For all my diligence in saving everything, I don't seem to have been able to save anything at all. It all washes away. Ebbs into the distance. Pulls out beyond reach. There are all these stars in the sky, and you can't catch a single one. Not if your arms were as long as the street you live on. There are no stars on your street. No matter how far you drive.

I have been utterly ineffectual. The rainforests. The ozone layer. Israel. Blame it all on me. I haven't done a goddamned thing.

Everything is always ending. That's how it was made.

There's a reason I have to skip ahead when Saying Goodbye from The Muppets Take Manhattan comes up in the music mix.

Labels: Krissy, NCT, The Muppets Take Manhattan

posted by Mary Forrest at 2:57 AM | Back to Monoblog

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"Boffo, Lenny. Socko, Lenny."

The Muppets Take Manhattan is on again. And I'm right at the part where Kermit is executing part one of his three-pronged strategy: "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em." I will fall asleep to its familiar intonations. A long, long time ago -- before there was a maryforrest.com, I was trying to think of a domain name that would be the essence of me. And I almost reserved the domain boffolennysockolenny.com, which is a reference to a line of Kermit's in the aforementioned feature film. The reason I did not is that I loathed the idea of having to spell it for everyone I ever said it to. The fact I did not proves that I am kind of a jerk and a loser when it comes to saying fuck everyone on account of my whimsical dreams. I should totally have just gotten that domain and made it bomb ass. Right?

I will fall asleep with little effort, I assume. I have been tired and bedraggled all day. I drank two sugar-free Red Bulls during my workshop today, and then I went to The Improv Olympic, where I was able to catch the last batch of shows in the last day of the festival. I met up with friends from my Tuesday workshop and ran into plenty of people in my Saturday UCB workshop and plenty of people from other workshops I've taken. What a glut of conglomeration that place is. It is something I dig. I think we began having cocktails at around five. And kept on keeping on long into the night. We watched the ASSSCAT and Beer Shark Mice shows. Ian Roberts was wearing the same shirt he wore when teaching my workshop this afternoon. And Neil Flynn appeared to have been wearing the same outfit he wore when he performed in my spec script reading last year. I do not mention this to be critical. I mention it because it sometimes even surprises me how closely I pay attention to what people wear. Even when I have no reason to log the data. I remember all sorts of details about what people were wearing. I remember a disturbing amount of detail about what I was wearing. In almost every circumstance. Even well before I began documenting nearly every day's outfiture (a word I just made up) with my various cameras. It is not uncommon for me to wear at least two different ensembles in the course of a single day. And by "at least," I mean sometimes it's more. And by "more," I mean sometimes it's ridiculous. Anyway, I guess it's a mnemonic device. I mark things visually. I picture stuff. I remember things in their place. When I can't find something, I can sort of close my eyes and divine my way back to it by remembering what I was doing and where I was going when I last had it in hand. Today it happened with a lipstick. I found it right next to the DVD player in my bedroom. And I totally remember exactly how it got there.

I'm happy to be back in Los Angeles. It's not that New York isn't full of things to be excited about. But I didn't really get to experience many of them. And the weather made me happy to come home to my un-air-conditioned apartment. It may get hot here very soon. But I will remember those days on the sidewalks of the Lower East Side, and I will notice that -- as hot as it ever gets here -- it hardly ever smells so strongly of turnips. Anyway, I'm glad to be back. The weather here has been stunning and lovely, and I have been comfortable in my clothes. And even though I feel a great push and pull on me at the moment, and even though my discombobulation appears to be temporarily unfixable by Red Bull, Jameson, or starvation, I have faith that it will abate, and I'm not so impatient that I can't sit still in the meantime.

By eleven, I had to make plans to go somewhere food would be served. So Jessie and I went to the Rustic, and Jeff met us there, and then Tim and Phil showed up a while later. Everything I tried to order could not be had, so I ended up having a burger which -- while admittedly delicious -- was not at all what I had in mind. And then I had to taxi everyone home, and that was a surprise to me. But the end result is I made it home all right, and I'm tired and ready for whatever comes next. And I have no problem falling asleep to Kermit The Frog. Partially because, when I close my eyes, I sort of pretend he's Ernie. And that makes for all the lullaby I need.

I like to wear horizontal stripes. I always have.

Labels: The Muppets Take Manhattan

posted by Mary Forrest at 5:10 AM | Back to Monoblog

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Sentiment Sandwich

I didn't make it to Kevin's party until around three a.m. I spent the earlier part of the evening meeting up with Josh and his pals, going to see Colder at The Echo, and then figuring out reasons not to wrassle. There were only a stalwart few left when I arrived and tossed my boozy offerings in the cooler. But that's all right. I don't always like having to make myself heard above the din. And there were still plenty of reasons to stay and chat and do the bottoms up gesture.

It's been an unusual week. And though I might like to say a great deal about why that is the case, I also feel as if the moment has passed. Let that be a lesson to you. When something occurs to you, say it. Waiting only allows you to reconsider. And sometimes that is the worst possible thing.

Muppets Take Manhattan was playing on the television when I left the house, and it was playing many hours later when I got back home. It's a persistent reminder that I can still manage to feel nostalgic, even when I have attempted to cauterize every possible vein and synapse. I'll think more on that later.

My phone was ringing off the hook tonight. I love that.

Labels: The Muppets Take Manhattan

posted by Mary Forrest at 5:39 AM | Back to Monoblog

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Liminal Programming

So, now it's The Hudsucker Proxy that's playing all the livelong day. A few weeks ago (and perhaps still) it was The Muppets Take Manhattan; now, it's The Hudsucker Proxy. Yet another film I will nearly invariably watch if it's on. I love the way it's written. I love the way it looks. I even love Jennifer Jason Leigh, whom I hate. That grey, snow-spattered, deco-inspired world is welcoming to me. And I also like to speak at a fast clip. There used to be a time when certain movies would only come on television at certain times of the year. The Wizard of Oz, for instance, would be aired on network television -- WITH commercial interruptions -- once each year and always at the same time. They would advertise it to pieces, and I would look forward to watching it with my family. We would even go out for some sort of fast food to eat in front of it some of the time. It was an event. But these days, every movie is playing everywhere all the time. It gets my sentimental clock all discombobulated. If I'm watching the same thing all the year long, how ever will I know how it made me feel? I need demarcation. I need calendar spaces. I need to know if it was a Monday. And if it was raining.

It is a Monday. And it isn't raining. But I don't think I will remember that the next time I need to. All these Mondays seem to run together these days. Every day of the week is like every other day of the week. I could sleep for weeks if I wanted to. Or stay awake. I could move to France.

Maybe I will.

Labels: movies, The Muppets Take Manhattan

posted by Mary Forrest at 1:36 PM | Back to Monoblog

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I see that face coming back to me like an old familiar song.

There are lessons to be learned from The Muppets Take Manhattan. Please enjoy this litany of them.

Stories about two kids who go off to the city to get married are not totally played out at this point.

Interspecies dating has been sanctioned since the '60s, but by 1984, full on frog-pig marriage was totally the social norm. I realize they weren't a GAY frog and a GAY pig, but I'm sure my point is still effectively driven home here.

Everyone prefers the rubber Wall Street Journal to the rubber Washington Post. Everyone.

If a pig can get a job at a department store and a frog can get a job at an ad agency, what's your little brother's excuse?

Construction workers will make love to anyone. Anyone.

I would take a meeting with a frog with an afro.

Wouldn't it be rad if dogs could talk?

Pigs CAN suck their thumbs.

Joan Rivers was never funny.

"Boffo, Lenny! Socko, Lenny!" is one of my all-time favorite exclamations.

Lonny Price went from The Muppets Take Manhattan to Dirty Dancing to Hot to Trot. Talk about the dictionary definition of trifecta!

Even frogs get nervous when marriage is the topic.

Puppets can make you cry. And you don't have to be a big gayrod like me, either.

I used to say I wanted to sing that wedding song at my own wedding one day. I am slightly less gay right now. And I no longer know how to fly. Goodbye, childhood, my old friend. La la la la la la la la. It's time for saying goodbye.

Those Muppets have been through so much together. They have weathered jewel heists and murder plots and the Big Apple and the briny seas and Charles Durning and the '80s, and they're still thick as thieves. I wish they weren't doing Denny's commercials, but in all other respects, I adore them.

Friendship is the finest ship in the world.

What better way could anything end, hand in hand with a friend. There's no arguing that.

Labels: The Muppets Take Manhattan

posted by Mary Forrest at 1:06 PM | Back to Monoblog

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The louder I say I'm happy, the more I believe it's so.

Saturday night, an anomalous Paul F. Tompkins Show found me at Largo. Paul F. Tompkins, who was so bearded and mustachioed as to make us think at first that his evil twin from the alternate universe had somehow found his way onstage, turned out to not be evil at all but in fact hilarious. It seems pointless to even offer superlative assessment, as each show seems to top the preceding one, and you start to ask yourself if you were even paying attention before because how could it possibly keep getting to be so wonderful. Surely, you just missed part of it before. Because you thought it was damn fine back then, too, and when are you ever wrong. I'm not following my own logic here. Anyway, it ruled. In my notebook, I nearly illegibly wrote, "Paul F. Tompkins, maverick hypnotist," and, "A fun word for the color yellow; 'Rocket Red' is too scientific." You don't know why that's funny, but it is, and you can trust me. Uncannily, Pee-wee Herman was introducing his hypnosis doll Dr. Mongo on t.v. just as I began to type the maverick hypnotist thing. And maybe that isn't exactly uncanny, but I know that very few of you will bother to look it up to make sure.

So, Paul F. Tompkins, right? Give this man his own television show, or I will strap sticks of dynamite to my bodice and blow my womanliness to smithereens. What do I have to do? Seriously. Just don't make it a show that requires him to stop doing his shows at Largo, for that would make me truly and ironically furious.

My pals and I went to Canter's after the show, and I ordered blintzes, but I wanted vodka.

And there's more.

I got a doggy last week. Her name is Audrey. And she runs away from me whenever I reach for her, but I'm sure that will change. Eventually. I also cut and colored my hair again. And celebrated my sister's and my father's birthday. And my friend Jessica was visiting for most of the week, which was lovely. But for some reason, I was tireder than I've ever been last week. I felt like I was falling asleep all day long. I could barely keep my eyes open for the shortest of drives. And I wanted naps again and again. And I didn't get them nearly that often.

The week before last, I went to Las Vegas at the drop of a hat and lived it up at THEhotel at Mandalay Bay, where I spent hours at the heavenly man-made beach they have there, swam with my sunglasses on, and liked the fact that you can walk through the lobby dripping wet and in your bathing costume and share an elevator with a woman in a bridal gown -- and look down on her for how gauche she is.

I spent a lot of money gambling, but it didn't hurt at all. I was totally up for losing it. That's a nice feeling. If you can go to Vegas and feel that way, do.

I had all sorts of ideas while I was driving up. I scribbled a lot of them down on a parking stub while I was on the road. Which I shouldn't be proud of, as I covered the 280 mile distance in about three hours and forty-five minutes, including the trafficky part getting out of L.A. I don't think it's recommended that you write while you drive at any speed, but that's just ridiculous. I even had a highway patrolman pull up behind me when I was going 95. I looked in my rearview and saw that scary, cockroach-like silhouette that those cars cut with their coloring and their antennae. I pulled to the right and assumed I was going to get a ticket. After all, my tags are expired, and even though I had an extension in my windshield, this cop couldn't have seen that. But to my surprise and delight, he passed me and pulled up behind the red Acura in front of me. They did not get over right away. And when they did, he pulled in behind them, sirens a-blazing, and I experienced the schadenfreude high that I nearly always feel when someone is getting a ticket and it isn't me. I don't know why I didn't get a ticket, but I took it as a sign and parlayed my good luck at the roulette table, where I did in fact win.

My journey from the angels to the stars was inspirational, to be sure. I spent a lot of money and had a lot of fun and wrote a lot down and learned to use my new camera. Well, one of them. The Sony is still gathering dust. But my new Canon goes with me everywhere. The road to Las Vegas is a tire tread graveyard. Ruined carcasses of shredded black rubber. I empathetically pitied the travelers who must have had to pull off to the dusty shoulder and work a jack in the 110 degree heat. They're long gone now, but the pieces of tire linger. It feels like the Old West, only less old. All the abandoned gas stations and ramshackle diners. Towns with no one in them. Quivering heat fanning off the sandy valley floor. It was stormy on my drive home. Rain and thunder and lightning in the desert. A pale grey sky. Majestic, in a way. I drove straight through to San Diego -- stopping once at Minneola Road to pee and take a picture of an old sign -- and performed at the comedy theater, where I was happy to have done so. I no longer remember what I did on stage on Friday and/or Saturday that might have been worth mentioning. But I remember having a good time and being told by a weird fellow leaving the theater (as he touched his eyebrow to mine) that I was the best one. I would ordinarily not have allowed such an invasion of my personal space, but it came as such a surprise and afterwards I just shrugged it off and told myself he was probably autistic.

Miss Yvonne sure was buxom. She plays old ladies in commercials now. I feel sad for that. But I feel happy when Kap'n Karl says, "Miss Yvonne, may I LIKE you?" Because that is a very funny thing to say. Paul Reubens is a genius. I give him a special dispensation to do whatever perverted and illegal thing he wants to. He'll always be great to me. And our society is too uptight anyway.

Oh, when I was in Vegas, I took my crew to the Star Trek Experience, for I am a nerd of gargantuan proportions. And nothing was funnier to me than when Justin thought that the signature Borg phrase ("Resistance is futile.") was, "You are not suitable." I wish that's what the Borg would say. It's much better. Did you know that when you go to the Borg attraction at the Star Trek Experience, they poke you in the ass? It's true. Vicious pointy things prod you through your seat and make you wonder what might have happened if you had been sitting only two inches further to the left. It's similar to those 4-D attractions at Disneyland and Disney's California Adventure. That "A Bug's Life" show touches you all over the place. And that's all right in the context of the show. But in the Borg thing, getting poked in the ass makes no sense based on what's happening on the screen and around you. It's completely out of touch with the narrative. It was just rude. The Borg Queen is talking to you and the Doctor is yelling and a hole gets blown in the overhead part of the bay you're in, but nothing really explains the ass-poking. I wonder who designed that part. Maybe it's an artifact left over from the previous attraction, Date Rape 4-D, starring Leslie Nielsen.

Yesterday, I was driving south past La Jolla, and I saw a scruffy couple walking on the freeway with their two dogs. They were dragging an amply loaded cart up a steep grade. I don't really remember whether they looked destitute, but in my imaginary memory they were shirtless and poor. I was listening to Bill Collins reading his poetry on A Prairie Home Companion at the time, and I wanted to write something amusing about them, but I didn't.

The Muppets Take Manhattan has been playing on cable like crazy. It's one of my favorite movies in all the world. And all the songs remind me of our living room in Guam, where I watched our VHS copy of it again and again and again. I wonder sometimes if the fact that such a great lot of my sentimental ooze is unleashed by shows that feature puppets and cartoon characters says something distasteful about my brain development. My tears get jerked by lots of things. But that Saying Goodbye song in this movie is like getting sprayed in the face with mace.

Life is a lot like that drive to Vegas, you know. Like a two-lane highway where everyone around you seems to be content to go sixty. This is an ineffective analogy. But I am always in a hurry. And I seldom get what I want.

When I ramble on like this, I am often at a loss for a way to let go and end it, so in closing, here is an excerpt from a conversation in a coffee shop where pictures were being drawn on placemats:

J: See my Luxor sign?

B: Yeah. I hate it.

J: Well, I hate your house.

M: You guys are like six year-olds.

J: You make me six years-old.

M: Poached eggs are not supposed to be completely cooked through in the yolk.

Labels: Audrey, comedy, NCT, Paul F. Tompkins, Star Trek, The Muppets Take Manhattan

posted by Mary Forrest at 2:18 AM | Back to Monoblog

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Are you kidding? I LOVE a wild goose chase!

I got a lot out of today, but I paid for it. Too much driving. Too much coffee. Too much vodka. Too much "vitamin water." Too much blabbermouthing. Too much everything. Not so much in the eating department, but that's for the best. I'm spent like a roll of quarters at a laundromat where the machines are all really large magnets that suck the change out of your pockets.

I saw Dennis Woodruff at Starbuck's on Melrose today. He had this air of vague celebrity. As if people were looking at him because they know who he is rather than because of the spectacle of seeing him emerge from that duct-tape-and-shag-carpet-covered car he drives around in. His woolly dog came out and absorbed some of the heat from the pavement for a while. Then he peed all over his leash and sauntered back to the shade. He was a sweet dog, but in a pitiable, retarded way. I had no desire to pet him.

However, I did see an unusual number of small, pettable dogs all over town today. Spry little miniatures in cute harnesses with surprised expressions on their moist-nosed mugs. Fidgety puppies with thick paws that foretold their gargantuan futures. Pairs of pugs on matching red leashes. They were everywhere. And I wanted to steal them all. But not in a wicked way. Just out of a wanton desire to heap affection on them. Maybe that's creepy.

I got a series of very determined and urgent catcalls from a workman on a scaffolding across the street from where I was walking. It was almost comically scripted. Like that scene in The Muppets Take Manhattan when Miss Piggy gets all the streetwise attention of those behardhatted fellows while she's spying on Kermit and Jenny. "Hey, pretty mama. Where you goin', mama? You lookin' hot today. Where you goin'?" I wanted to say, "To Whole Foods," but I thought it might exacerbate things. Perhaps even be seen as an invitation to join me. Which it wouldn't have been. Especially as I was only dropping off a box of crackers for my mother. I'm not the sort that gets her hackles up over this form of urban courtship, but I think I'm not terriby fond of being called "mama" by anyone. It has a certain '70s cachet that isn't entirely uncool, but it still implies a rudimentary age difference that I'm inclined to find insulting. On the up side of that, I got carded at Albertson's when I was buying two bottles of vanilla vodka. I'm sure the cashier didn't think I was that construction guy's mama. I like her very much.

As an unnecessary aside, I have been becoming obsessed with Whole Foods Market. It's like my new Nordstrom. I go there just to browse and find new things to try. And when the cashiers are nice to me and ask me if I like the weirdo foods I'm buying, I feel like I'm in a special little club -- albeit a club of healthful people with social consciences that govern their food preparation habits, something I would ordinarily scoff at and possibly ball up a flyer for, carelessly tossing it in to the non-recyclables bin, even when I know better. I love buying food there. Even though it's much more expensive and the selection is poorer in many categories and the packaging and marketing of their non-mainstream brands of breakfast cereals make me laugh like a fool in the aisle. I made my mom try this tofu I like to buy there, and she said, unimpressed, "I wouldn't kill anyone for it." I replied, "Well, I wouldn't either." I don't think that was the point. There are really very few meals I can list as appropriate catalysts for murder. Even the ones that border on it are nearly sure to be free of one thing, and that's tofu. It was a funny, idiomatically American thing for my mom to say, I noted. Sometimes I lose track of how thoroughly assimilated she has become. She even claims to enjoy watching Change of Heart and American Idol. What do you want to bet she was in an outrage tonight. The future of American entertainment being left in the clumsy hands of a call-in vote. Where's good old-fashioned tyranny when you need it?

Early in the morning, before I headed out to meet my friend for coffee, I was watching Follow That Bird on the television set, and I laughed and laughed. Even Chevy Chase was funny. Although, I think his performance only further proves that he can only be funny as a bumbling newscaster character. I know some of you will refer me to his Fletch years, but I actually think they've been canceled out by his more recent efforts. All the same, I laughed out loud when he mispronounced Sesame Street.

Oh, and further on the puppet tip, I also watched some of The Witches yesterday -- another credit to the Henson legacy. The only part that makes me cock a brow is the moment when the grandson turns back into a naked boy, bursting from a mouse-sized house in his grandmother's bedroom, and runs -- nude -- to the window to thank the witch who fixed him, completely oblivious to his shame. Am I the only person who thinks this is both wrong and implausible? That aside, my little sister used to love this movie. I think she's on the right track.

I don't know much about this organic dairy business, but Horizon chocolate milk is as yummy as love in my tummy. What a delicious way to close up shop for the night.

I got some additional birthday merriment tonight. I love it when celebrations stretch on and on and on.

Labels: The Muppets Take Manhattan

posted by Mary Forrest at 3:14 AM | Back to Monoblog

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Tearjerking

Music from these movies makes me cry:

Glory
The Cider House Rules
The American President
Murder in the First
The Muppets Take Manhattan
The English Patient
Schindler's List
Sunflowers
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
Deep Impact
Hook
Meet Joe Black
North
The Shawshank Redemption
West Side Story

I also cry when I watch Tim Burton's remake of Planet of the Apes but for wholly unsentimental reasons.

Labels: The Muppets Take Manhattan

posted by Mary Forrest at 7:47 PM | Back to Monoblog

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