They painted the outside of my building in early January, and they took the numbers off the doors when they painted.
I’ve been without numbers for a couple weeks now, which was fun when I tried to order in and had to explain to order-takers where in my building my apartment is, only to have them repeatedly fail to relay this information to the drivers actually delivering my food.
I was happy to see numbers back on my building when I returned home Friday night, but something was a bit off when I got to my apartment:
I wasn’t alone. Almost everyone else with a 1 in their apartment number ended up with the same black one with their silver last number. Well, Apartment 11 just got two black ones, and then the folks next door to me got off easiest:
At least to the unobservant or colorblind, theirs look normal. Mine look like the numbers on a cheap motel in a bad horror movie.
They’re a sign that you should yell at the screen, admonishing the idiot characters not to enter, because there’s totally a guy with a hook inside waiting to disembowel them.
If you ever see Inland Empire (and I don’t know that I entirely recommend that you do, though if you do, you must must must see it in a theater), you will understand why I was freaked out when I saw this post after seeing it earlier today.
I can state right now that as much as I enjoyed Lynch’s publicity stunts of sitting around various parts of Hollywood with a cow, I will very likely not see Inland Empire, so you’ll have to explain your fright to me later.
Oh, it’s just the usual. Lynch sets some defenseless women in a world populated entirely by darkened hallways with doors specifically marked (in this case with a mismatched 4-7), inside of which demon-worshiping bunnies performed in front of a live student audience. Perhaps I do not understand this film so thoroughly as does Tim.