STAYING INDOORS
FRIDAY
Patrick retrieved me from work and we headed down to Olney. He forewarned me of the weakened condition currently unenjoyed by his 12-year-old Maltese Kirby, due to a swollen right eye. This saddened me; Kirby and I have always had a cool bond goin' on.
This was the only of the three days spent together in which we did not 22 skiddoo our asses out of the cushy confines of the home on Olney Mill Road. Time was much better spent munching carryout Thai (pad tofu for 'trick, pad ka pow for the author) and drinking Coors Light. Conversation with Patrick's parents flowed from collegiate shenanigoats, war, and the importance of passing on family history, to how the Irish are a forsaken lot of drunk dunderheads condemned to be mocked eternally by exploitative suds-profferers here and in England.
Attempts by all parties to defeat me at guessing artists on those "radio" style TV channels were futile, less it was Bobby Vinton or some shit. (Trivial Pursuit was admittedly trickier.)
"This is 'Stormy', by Classics IV. Their other hit was 'Spooky'. So pretty much, they were good so long as they had a song that began with an 's' and ended with a 'y'."
"What about 'Sunny'?" Patrick's mom mildly slurred.
"Bobby Hebb", I answered without hesitation.
"How do you know that?!"
"My mind is fulla trivial crap like 'at."
SATURDAY
We unwound the yarn of time slowly. There was the NHL All-Star Skills Competition, where the bestest hockey players who weren't injured or uninterested showed off their speed, accuracy and creativity. All it really confirmed was that Alexander Ovechkin is Christ on Skates. Dude was trying to hit the puck like a baseball.
The Japanese once again enriched us as we huddled 'round the laptop campfire to watch classic Downtown Batsu game videos.
SUNDAY
I exercised to Gang of Four while Patrick sprawled on the couch, awaiting an airing of the 1985 children's classic Follow That Bird. Big Bird leaves Sesame Street and then tries to go back! (Amazing in retrospect that Elmo only had a nonspeaking role.) I eventually joined 'trick on the couch, our bodies lain parallel. Sleep was inevitable. I awoke to find I had dribbled on the cape of a vampire Snoopy I was using for a pillow. Ewww.
At 8, we switched to a new episode of The Simpsons. Given the description--Homer and Marge-centered flashback wherein we discover how Marge inadvertently created "grunge music"--the expectations were dire. Shockingly, the show was hilarious.
"Homer, did you know that every president has been a straight white male?"
"Even Walt Disney?"
The much-dreaded "grunge" plot was actually great--after losing Marge to a hyper-lefty associate professor, Homer starts a band called Sadgasm. Their initial outdoor performance inspires an attendee to make a call on a nearby pay phone:
"Kurt, this is Marvin. Your cousin, Marvin Cobain. Know that new sound you've been looking for? Listen to this!"
Oh wait, I forgot. The Simpsons haven't been funny for a decade and I'm just a fool holding on to past glories, desperately seeking humor and heart where there simply is none. Oh do cunt off, Family Guy fanatics!
The All-Star Game ended dramatically, with the game winner coming with only 21 seconds left. The Screen Actors Guild Awards were cool; Alec Baldwin and Tina Fey won for their work on the greatest damn show on TV, 30 Rock, and we learned that Charles Durning has been in a fuck of a lotta films.
SHOPPING
SHOPPING
SATURDAY
Up at 10--dear Jesus was it cold. The temp improved but the wind was gnarly throughout the day. Our goal was Downtown Silver Spring, a cavalcade of consumer opportunity for people not quite rich enough to live in DC. The jury was indecisive initially, but eventually the 12 good men and women tried and true returned a verdict exonerating the day and sparing it death by lethal disenchantment.
Trips to Borders and the Mall were let-downs for sure, tre ghetto without the tre. Only a last-minute pop into Marshalls salvaged the latter trek--I scored a sweet sweater there. The walk around Borders was frustrating, as they didn't have anything I couldn't grab in Hagerstown, and they weren't selling the new Be My Valentine, Charlie Brown deluxe DVD. Also, I managed to strain my left leg there.
It was noon when we decided to eat lunch at Panera Bread. Actually, Patrick had naught but iced green tea, while I supplemented my beverage with a Frontega Chicken Panini. We sat in the rear of the restaurant, one table down from some college student in the throes of intense weekend study: one hand wrapped around a yellow marker, the other planted square across her forehead in intense concentration as she gazed intently at sheet after sheet of stapled paper on the table, the industrial-size bottle of Deer Park dying of loneliness in front of her. With two hours to go before the 2 PM showing of No Country For Old Men, we decided to hit up a couple more shops in an attempt to plunk gold nuggets from piles of horse dung.
American Apparel was a revelation for just getting to see their clothes on racks rather than the taut figures of the website models. I picked up a red-and-gray hoodie and red workout leggings while Patrick gawked the lame attire.
My Brooklyn pal Annie despises AA as a whole for not only the clothes, but the marketing of said product and the fact that the AA store 'round her way is populated by insufferable hipster kids who, given access to a time machine, would go back to the 70s to be Studio 54 doormen. Thankfully, the Silver Spring location is free of these type folk, appealing more to the more low-key high-maintenance. The most arresting figure there was the woman at the register, whose look so screamed "I can't wait for the next Allison Wolfe DJ night at the Black Cat" that Patrick was very tempted to ask her if she preferred Erase Errata with or without Sara Jaffe.
A pair of 10 buck cotton pants from Ann Taylor later, and we were ready for the movies.
MOVIES
SATURDAY
The AFI Silver Theatre is, per Wikipedia, "the most technically advanced Motion Picture exhibition outlet in North America. It features the ability to show 16, 35, and 70mm vertical, HDCAM, Betacam, Betacam SP/SX, DigiBetacam, DVCAM, Mini DV, DVD, VHS, D5, and DVCPRO all in state of the art projectors." Suck that, LA and NYC. Suck that with cheese on it!
The Silver Theatre also has special exhibitions in addition to showing current movies. Starting next month: the complete works of the Coen Bros.
How was No Country? Deserving of every accolade it has and will receive. I'm a sucker for ensemble performance, and this is a classic one, bringing to life the suspenseful, serpentine, bittersweetly reflective script. The violence went jarring to mundane--by the filmmakers design, mind--till the controversial conclusion seemed inevitable. I hope the Cormac McCarthy novel is comparably awesome source material, as I'm going to order it shortly.
SUNDAY
We saw our second Best Picture nominee in as many days with a noon showing of Juno at the Olney 9 Theatre. Patrick had seen it once before. Unlike No Country, the theater was sparsely-populated--seven people. Sometimes that's cool; I still remember seeing Pulp Fiction late in its theatrical run with my best friend, two of only 5 people in the audience for a 10:30 PM showing. We were laughing at unabashed volume and parroting dialogue to the oblivious screen.
I enjoyed Juno greatly. It had heart, wit, and superlative performances from JK Simmons and Allison Janney as the parents. It also had moments were the wit fell flat, where you could feel the screenwriter had a pathological inability to let situations be organically amusing. The music stuff? I about peed myself to hear the Melvins namedropped, and Sonic Youth are so embedded in my DNA that the references to them (positive and negative) sent my nerve ends atingle (and no, I'm not one of those fans who gives a flying fuck at a rolling donut whether or not people check their music out for the first time ever after this movie; good one on 'em, I just hope they don't hear Confusion is Sex first. 'Cause they're not gonna be ready).
FOOD
SATURDAY
From the movie we drove back to Olney, specifically Sakura, for some exquisite Japanese food.
It must've been the Green Dragon tickling my tongue as it washed over it, 'cause I couldn't shut up. Whether it was the perceived dominance of Asians in the realms of variety shows, pop-punk and baseball, the actual proliferation of these eateries in Japan, or the odds that the annoying kid seated across from us would shriek and vomit pea soup when the chef set the hibachi grill aflame, I was finding reasons to run my mouth.
The chef appeared when there were 6 of us at the teppan: Patrick, me, the little girl, her mom, and two female companions. Practically from the moment they were seated the child had been ornery and prone to slide off mom's lap and run around the place.
"Your tubes are tying themselves right now, aren't they?" Patrick whispered, barely stifling a grin.
Eventually, mama and babe exited.
Patrick ordered a shrimp and chicken meal with fried rice, while I had the steak and chicken with white rice. (The chef, a young lad named Jun, could scarcely believe that I, a young lass named Jenn, wanted my meat well-done; he was similarly scoobied when my awesome boyfriend inquired as to what the individual sauces were called in Japanese.) It was yet again some of the finest stuff I'll ever eat. In addition to being delicious and filling, it also instilled a real sense of pride, as I was able to eat 80% of the meal (yeah, I had a goddamn calculator with me) with chopsticks.
SUNDAY
A sweet Mexican lunch followed later by a Patrick special, authentic Italian spaghetti and meatballs, with mushrooms and sausage beautifying the thick rich sauce. Add in some bread and red wine, and you had the ideal accompaniment to the All-Star Game. Our hero Ovechkin got 2 early goals.
THE UNEXPECTEDLY ERUDITE LEANINGS OF THE J & P SHOW
FRIDAY
Patrick and I had a very involved debate over the use of red and blue in 18th century French poetry.
SATURDAY
Deciding that the culinary and visual representations of Rising Sun comma Land Of needed another point so's to make the trinity holy, Patrick and myself engaged in a passionate, equal parts frustrating and liberating discussion over which of tanka, haiku or shi is the finest example of Japanese poetry.
SUNDAY
Before shuffling off into dreamland, Patrick and I poured out some soy milk and pondered the disparate literary legacies of Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton.
American ApparelSilver Spring No Country For Old Men Juno
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