Movie reviews!

One good thing about my change in student status has been a wealth of new-found free time. Thus far I haven't done much with it--I find that I'm still recovering for now, more than anything else--but I have caught more movies in the past four months than I've probably seen in three years. And, I'm happy to say, many were seriously good. (Of course, that statistic is helped by the fact that I finally got off my ass and saw the Godfather I and II for the first time ever.) Below please find some select reviews:

1) Sweeney Todd
Johnny Depp sings! And he has a decent voice, too! Kick-ass costuming, a nice/twisted little love story, and interesting cinematography. At least, I think so: I spent about one-third of the movie with my eyes covered. The slicing! The blood and gore! The horrid meat pies! It was a bit too much for my delicate disposition, and I ended up--seriously--a shade of pale green by the end. (An aside to those who live in the DC area: the movie theater in Tysons Corner has a super cheap pre-noon matinee price. Catch a movie at 10am, and then grab lunch, unless you're still nauseated from the throat-slicing scenes. We had to postpone lunch by a full hour to give me time to recover.)

Rating: three hockey pucks out of four--forgive me, but I'm all fired up about the NHL playoffs (the Flyers are rocking the house!!), and the usual star rating system seemed so uninspired.

2) Eastern Promises
Holy moly. I saw this movie at a friend's house two weeks ago, and when it ended, we all sat up straight and stared at each other, slack-jawed. Amazing gangster flick that sticks with you--and I got to practice my horrible, non-existent Russian skills! Viggo Mortensen cuts a dramatic figure with the multiple tattoos and the greasy hair. I'm shocked that this movie didn't have more of a presence in American theaters. Or maybe it did, and I was just enough of a flake that I never noticed.

Rating: four pucks

3) The Departed
I love love love Marky Mark, even though I strongly suspect he hates being remembered as--and still called--Marky Mark. That said, his character was about as physically unattractive as I've ever seen him. Leonardo DiCaprio, of whom I'm not the biggest fan, was fantastic, and his character made me come around to liking him. So, yay.

I saw the Departed a couple of weeks ago at my sister's house. For some reason, they had several dozen free movie channels one weekend, and at 10pm we (she, my brother-in-law, and I) decided to sit down to watch it on one of the many HBOs at our disposal that night. It's a long movie, though, and by 11:45 I was wiped out and went to bed with about an hour of it remaining. Sis and b-in-law were right behind me; we were Tivo-ing it and would watch the rest the next day. Except... while I went to bed, they decided to continue to watch it in their bedroom. Fast forward to the next morning. Sis volunteers to free up the big tv in the living room for me to watch the rest of the movie, which I happily do. So I'm sitting there, completely engrossed, when b-in-law walks into the living room and asks, "So, is [character] really an FBI informant?" I spit out whatever was in my mouth at the time and shake my head in disbelief. Sis looks at him incredulously and gasps, laughing, "Oh. My. God." "Whah?" he replied defensively/cluelessly. And in an instant, the suspense vanished. Actually, it was pretty funny, and the ending still kept me gasping with every twist and turn. Awesome, awesome flick.

Rating: four brand-spanking-new NHL regulation pucks

4) The Kingdom
A major rah-rah-USA! sort of movie, which is fine for mindless fare, but the inaccuracies and the requisite ability to suspend one's understanding of how the real world actually works started to wear on me. Why why why was Jennifer Garner traipsing around Saudi Arabia in a form-fitting t-shirt? Tell me! Never mind how annoying Jason Bateman's character was. Sigh.

Rating: two pucks (hey, it was still entertaining)

4) No Country for Old Men
This was my most recent viewing, as the movie of choice for the latest Classy Evening In at Tiberius and Fluffy's house. I fought hard to watch this one over Gone Baby Gone, and while I'm glad that I got to see it, I wasn't as spellbound as I'd expected, mostly because of the "wait, that's it?" ending. But Javier Bardem? Super creepy. It's amazing that someone who looked so handsome and dashing at the Oscars could look like he did in this movie. Josh Brolin? His best role since the Goonies! The Milk Duds that were left over from our last Classy Evening In (featuing a viewing of Borat)? Delectable, and not at all stale! God bless the humble Milk Dud. And God bless the Coen brothers for the idea to put Bardem in that hideous haircut--it honestly made the movie.

Rating: three pucks and a roll of tape (it would have been four pucks but for the ending)

So there you go. I don't expect much in the way of movie-viewing as long as the Flyers are still in the playoffs, but as the summer blockbusters are released, I will be sure to inform you of my opinions, loyal reader.

All things papal

So the pope is in Washington this week, and the whole town is a-twitter. And that's great, not least because it meant that the road crews that had been paving Massachusetts Avenue worked overtime to get the work done in time for his visit (the Vatican's embassy is on Mass Ave). It's like driving on glass! No more debilitating potholes! Awesome!

Anyway, all of the pomp and circumstance reminds me of the time that my friend Brad and I were driving back from a basketball game last year. It was mid afternoon in downtown DC, and traffic had been moving along just fine until a parade of speeding shopping carts exploded onto the scene. It was evidently some sort of race, with the shopping carts decorated for the occasion (imagine pirate ships, race car themes, etc). And then came the pope himself, except it was a dude of about 22 years old, almost certainly drunk, standing up in the shopping cart that was being pushed by another dude, almost certainly drunk, wearing running shoes and a red cardinal's robe. As the "pope" was blessing the crowd, his "cardinal" was sprinting through traffic--with the shopping cart careening out of control as it cut a diagonal along the intersection of Massachusetts and 17th Street--and screaming, "GET OUT OF MY [BLEEPING] WAY!! WE'RE NOT STOPPING!!"

As I sat in the passenger seat, mouth agape, Brad had the presence of mind to scream back, "THAT'S NOT VERY PAPAL!!!"

I know I'm not doing it justice, but it was hilarious, I assure you.

Bleaugh

If I've owed you an email for the last week, I'm really sorry. I've had what can only be described as the plague for the better part of four days, and it kicked me square in the ass. To wit: I slept probably 75% of the weekend away, and the times that I was awake I was hunched over a barf bucket. Talking makes me nauseated, and typing makes me dizzy. Awesome.

I'm at work, although I don't know why, because I still feel like I got hit by a freight train. More later, maybe....

Oh Kitty, my darling... 'tis far better to part*

(*With apologies to the Pogues)

Well, I did it. I finally sold my car, Kitty. And I had no idea it would be as traumatic as it was.

There’s something strangely romantic about one’s first car. I had driven Kitty, my little red Pontiac Sunbird, for well over a decade—some would say well past her prime. The thing is, I knew she was a mediocre car, but she got me where I needed to go (for the most part), and she did so with a surprising amount of fun. Her fastest days were behind her, but we could still hold our own on I-95 and were able to weave in and out of slower traffic with ease. That, and because she was an older car, I was less stressed to drive in the city, where dings and scrapes are the norm and anxiety over them is wasted energy. And sure, she had any number of creaks and squeaks, and driving her was sometimes a test of courage that I wasn’t always eager to take en route to the supermarket (she was known to be tempermental), but, dammit, she was mine, and I knew her better than I knew most people.

Most people, incidentally, were wary to ride in the passenger seat, including my own sister (except when it was convenient for her, of course). The last time she was in the car with me was last summer, when we took her dog to the vet for a checkup. As we drove through the streets of South Philadelphia, she commented on the weird “humming” sound emanating from the car. I turned down the stereo—sure enough, there was a weird, jet engine-like sound coming from under the hood. It had always been there, as far as I knew, but I hadn't really noticed it before, and apparently it wasn’t normal, at least in newer cars. It was just one of Kitty’s many quirks. Others included the inability to open the driver’s side door with a key (thanks to a would-be thief who tried to break in and busted the lock in the process--I suppose my faded Phillies cap in the backseat had a certain appeal), the rattle in the center column when she got up to about 70mph, and, of course, the Mystery of the Cooling System. Over the past decade, I spent probably two grand trying to figure out why the hell my “low coolant” light came on every few weeks. When it was clear that no one had any answers, I decided to do the logical thing: stop spending money on crappy mechanics and simply fill the coolant tank whenever the light went on. Problem solved.

Kitty’s time was coming up, though. The last time I took her to Philly—last weekend—I noticed that the oil pressure gauge was acting up. The longer I drove her, the lower the pressure fell. Not good. And then, for the first time ever, her “check gauges” light came on when the oil pressure dropped to the warning zone. Sigh. It was time. There’s only so much money that I can and should be spending on a sixteen-year-old car. I knew it was finally time to get a new set of wheels.

So on Saturday morning I took Kitty on her last drive. Our final stop was the VW dealership up the street from my apartment, where I’d been eyeballing the new Rabbits on display out front. I’d test-driven a cute little silver one earlier in the week, but by the time I’d gotten up there this weekend, it was gone. I told the salesman I wanted one with a sunroof, and the next thing I knew, I was signing a contract to buy a new red Rabbit. I took one last photo of Kitty before they transferred the tags:

I drove the Rabbit around a bit to get some miles on the engine, and then I went home and had a couple of glasses of chianti to dull the pain of missing Kitty. Godspeed, li’l car! We had a good run.

(An aside: “How did Kitty get her name?” you may ask. I can thank my former roommate Becki for that. When I brought Becki out to the street to meet my new car for the first time, we stood beside her, pondering appropriate names. I don’t remember if Becki suggested the name “Kitty” on her own or if we did it simultaneously, but somehow the name was blurted out and somehow it stuck. Another aside: Kitty was the girlfriend of Becki's car, Zippy. So there you go.)

Oof

For the grand total of zero people who still read this, I'm sorry. Seriously, if anyone is still actually checking this, I owe several of you emails (including a pathetically belated birthday wish to AddledWriter), and I'm really sorry for being such a slug. I've hit a bit of a rough patch in recent months that put me in a bit of a funk, and I'm still working to get a grip. Boo hoo hoo. I'll be fine, and it's no big deal in the grand scheme of things. It's also a drag that I no longer have the internet at home, so the only reason I'm able to log on now is because I'm hanging out late at work before my yoga class. (More on that later, maybe.)

Anyway, to lighten the mood, I encourage you to go check out cute bunnies. Whee!

'Tis the season for weird photos

So much for the care and feeding of my little blog. It took my being sick on Christmas Eve to sit in front of this keyboard and do something to keep this blog on life support. After all, with nothing else to do but stare at the tv and shove homemade cookies down my throat (the latter aren't really helping my current state of health affairs) whilst I convalesce is making me a little antsy and twitchy--never mind cross-eyed and bloated. So, anyway, being stuck at home has gotten me to tinkering with the computer and some of the goodies on it, including random pics from the past couple of months.

Here are some from the weekend I spent with PP and Becki in October at the Apple Harvest Festival in central Pennsylvania (I'd tell you the town if I remembered). The first is of Ye Olde Hay Mound. What made it "olde" is something of a mystery, but for some inexplicable reason, I found the notion of antiquating a hay mound hilarious. It doesn't take much, I guess:


The second one is of a booth at the festival where they were selling these unspeakably creepy planters made out of children's jeans. I actually thought of someone for whom I could buy one, but doing so would (1) encourage the seller to make more and (2) ruin a friendship. So I opted to spend my money on apple fritters, sweet potato fries with apple vinegar, and an apple smoothie.


(Note the shadow of your intrepid blogger at the bottom.)

This last one is the futon on which I slept at PP and Becki's place:


Now, normally a futon isn't something worthy of a photo, but note the strategically placed container of Lysol wipes. Here's the deal: one evening, some years ago, PP stayed overnight at Volgroth's house for one reason or another. As PP was preparing for bed, Volgroth came into the guest room with a wad of toilet paper. No one knows why (perhaps he would need it to dab his eyes while he cried himself to sleep?), and I think we're a bit too afraid of the answer to actually ask him. Anyway, as a result, every time I stay with PP and Becki, I, too, receive my own little wad of toilet paper, usually tucked neatly next to me under the blankets.

For some reason, on this trip, PP was inspired. Perhaps it was the scent of apples in the air or the rum and Cokes we all had after dinner. Whatever the reason, when I skipped downstairs to go to bed, I found the Lysol wipes waiting for me, tucked neatly next to the pillow. He has outdone even himself. I tell you, the Plaza could learn a thing or two about hospitality from PP.

To those who celebrate, Merry Christmas!

Oopsie

Looks like I let this poor little blog atrophy for over a month. Poor little guy. I promise to care for and feed it with deliciously crappy tidbits over the next couple of weeks as work dies down and I find that I'm actually able to take a break for lunch again. Whee!