Como fue mi fin de semana
What a blur.
I just stepped in the door from my Jarhead screening. I fully understand that most of the world stands in disagreement with me on this issue, but I quite liked it. And *not* just for Sweet Baby Jake in two Santa hats; though, come to think of it, this contributes more than peripherally to the overall appeal. I was going to write a rather hamhanded review here, but I'll instead just note that there were moments that absolutely took the breath from my body.
Oh - and that Mr. Gyllenhaal, Peter Starsgaard, and Lucas Black will all be making an appearence in some dark corner of my subconscious mind, and it'll probably be in tandem.
Friday night's descent upon Mr. T's Bowl (the finest not-a-bowling-establishment in southern California, if such a thing should happen to exist elsewhere) brought Newcastles aplenty, as well as several charcoal drawings done as a collaboration between our little crew and a couple of completely boozled anarchists and some truly...um...memorable music, as Mr. T's tends to. First came a set by a band called The Modulators, which made me clap and rock out in exactly the same way as if I'd been cheering on a couple of guys from my high school in their own garage (really, it had a lot of charm). Then came the coup de grace - a bunch of guys dressed in short-sleeved dress shirts, ties, pressed pants, and bike helmets. Oh, yes - The Mormons. Keep in mind that all of this takes place in a womb of tinsel, Christmas lights, musty velvet and, on that evening at least, the soft glow of black light on fake plastic cobwebs. Behind the stage, a faded, six-foot-tall poster of a ghetto blaster peels amicably from the wall. The crowd is as mixed as a Benetton ad on a bender, and the front hall always smells faintly of recently-smoked pot. Truly pleasant.
Saturday started out cruising around downtown with Sarah, shopping madly for Christmas presents and nest-featherings. I'll photograph my lovely take and Flickr it presently. From that point, it was a flurry of cooking for the Jamaican dinner, which was a spiral into sweet madness. The spread was epic - chocho, curry rundown, rice & peas, rum bread pudding, boiled green banana, bammy, and a hefty dose of the platanos I used to be willing to swim to Taboga for. It was lovely enough, and soaked in sorrel-rum punch and Red Stripe and affection it became nearly transcendent. Cosku took out a guitar at about midnight, and we gifted the neighborhood with high-decibel versions of such I'm-drunk-and-feeling-ebullient classics as More Than Words and Wonderful Tonight.
I woke up this morning in a warm sunspot, cuddled between beloved companions, smelling faintly of Turkish cigarettes and just having emerged from an exquisite dream. We were sitting back to back on a beach, and you were playing the Iron & Wine cover of 'Such Great Heights'. I remember feeling your ribcage expand and contract with the little breaths you took between the stanzas. The imprint of the dream was so strong that I was sure when I got up, I'd have to brush the sand from the bottoms of my feet.
Of course, I spent most of today paying for it. Good lord, I haven't been that hung over in years. Slept until two, then went out with Rheanna and was convinced to buy a pair of (admittedly, white-hot) boots that cost as much as a weekend trip to the east coast. That's MISS Impulsive to you, smartass.
An auspicious start to the week, for sure and for certain...