We had a blockbuster weekend: The shit, which has for the better part of two years somehow attached itself to our joint family name, was firstly sorted into piles of "keep" and "ditch", then shoved with painstaking precision into plastic bags, cardboard boxes and eventually into our spare room or the back of our car; without wishing to sound like a supreme cockhead, we managed to jetison at least 66 percent of what can only be called waste; we went food shopping; we had dinner with fellow alien friends; we waltzed over to the larger of the two lakes, sat ourselves down and watched a wafer-thin Japanese bloke on a jet ski carve the water into figure eights, jump over his freshly made wake into a ninety-degree drop, and then take off into the air to perform the coolest three-sixty aerials with help of a revved throttle.
There was a whole lot of sweat during each and every one of these fabulous events thanks to summer blowing in for what feels like good. Of course, like last year and the year before that, I was to learn this morning that this meant absolutely nada to the school department, as their daft rules on when the air conditioning is turned on is not based on how many of their staff members die from heat exhaustion or dehydration, but rather on what the date is. Official word of mouth tells me there's ANOTHER MONTH TO GO before the button is pressed and the sacred refrigerated wind blows over my sweat-beaded cranium, soaking arm pits and fire hydrant crotch. You figure that one out and get back to me.
Movies we saw:
Broken Flowers. Bill Murray and a series of talented actresses in a quirky road movie where Jim Jarmusch delves into relationships and their occasional and unexpectedly delayed hiccups.
Closer. Like a memorable play only fifty times better. Two Poms, Clive Owen and Jude Law, each fall in love with their own piece of American tail, ably played by Julia Roberts and Natalie Portman. Then two of them throw shit at a fan, it sticks, and everyone's covered for a while as insults fly, tears fall and life stands still. Time heals wounds, blah blah blah, the movie ends with a head or two held high and a head or two emotionally decapitated. A great script is bettered only by stunning visuals (not solely in reference to Natalie Portman and the scene she steals dressed in a pink wig and not much else) and phenomenal performances by the four lead actors.
Inside Man. Clive Owen again in a Spike Lee joint; also features Denzel Washington and a multitude of Hollywoodian names. It kinda plods along and features a third-rate '70s porn flick soundtrack where the same two trumpet-led tracks are repeated ad nauseam. That obvious urinal cake aside, this "joint" is saved by the smarts of the plot and the dialogue.