On Yodeling

Yodeling. I have yodeling stuck in my head. Classic Slim Whitman, Raising Arizona yodeling.

In my head. And I can't get it out.

All this arose because my coworker came in this morning and promptly informed me that she'd gone to see No Country For Old Men this weekend.

The Coens directed that. Conversation was started. You can't mention the Coens to me and not spur some kind of social interaction.

Some day I may work her cinemuscles up to a viewing of my favorite Coen movie, my cinematic Mecca, that which all film, nay all things must abase themselves: Blood Simple.

It is undoubtedly one of the best films ever made. I watch it, I study it. I take copious notes on it these days that, God willing, the world will never see. So it's going to be a hurdle to get her to that point. She doesn't like horror movies. She dislikes the plot of Juno enough to not even want to watch it on principle alone.

It's going to be a struggle just to get her through O Brother, Where Art Thou?, let alone Fargo or The Big Lebowski.

I have my work cut out for me.