Syriana, Seriously?

Okay, I'm a little late to the party on this one, but I finally had the dosh and a reason to watch Syriana. The reason was because I had a date. You heard me, but I've been reminded that maybe dates are not the best thing to write about on the blog so I cut a lot of it out which is too bad because some of it was really funny like for example the music that plays in Heaven is the 12" single (instrumental) of Blue Monday by New Order. But just how I discovered that fact will have to remain unsaid. I mentioned Syriana in an earlier post, and have to say that it just missed my expectations. This is the film for which George Clooney gained between 30 and 40 pounds, and allegedly threatened suicide due to the excruciating pain he was in after breaking his brain, the membrane around his brain to be precise. And before I dismiss this movie, I qualify the dismissal by saying that it was limited because it had to adhere to the book See No Evil, and it would probably be a good idea to read the book first. I don't do it myself, due to a very disappointing experience with The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole. I read the book first, then watched the BBC series. Watch first, read later. Trust me.

In addition to George Clooney, Syriana stars Matt Damon (sans Ben), Amanda Peet, Christopher Plummer, Jeffrey Wright, Chris Cooper and Alexander Siddig. Watch for this guy. Apart from some Star Trek stuff, people might not know him. I'm calling his role in Syriana his breakthrough performance. The film basically follows four separate stories to a convergence. The film might have been better done in the same style as Lola Rennt, but then this story might get a little tedious.

I worked a half day and went by Ayako's workplace to say hi. She was working until 20:00, so I said I'd call her and take her to a movie. She asked me what kind of movie, thinking that I wanted to take her to those other movies. I told her that I hadn't decided, but that I would call her later. There were plenty of choices: Rumour Has It, Mrs. Henderson Presents, The Family Stone, Casanova and others. I wanted to see Mrs. Henderson because it was showing at a theatre that is shutting in a few months. The Family Stone only got two stars, and Ayako had never heard of Casanova so we went to see Syriana.

I went to collect Ayako downtown, but I hadn't even shaved. I was a little worried because I hadn't waxed in awhile either. My wax guy is too busy these days. All of a sudden he wants to be an opera star. Stupid wax guy. Who's gonna wax my bits now, Trey? Who? Seriously though, he's really talented and deserves to be on the stage.

We drove uptown to the "arthouse" cinema and then came the ominous question, "Are you members?" This is a red flag indicating that the movie goer is about to be financially Rogered. I replied no, and the clerk handed me some paperwork. After signing a second mortgage and pledging Baby as security, we were allowed in to the theatre. I spied a poster for Caché "coming soon". Hello?? This is why they think they can charge an arm and a leg for admission, but I just chuckled because Caché had already played at the other arthouse theatre downtown last month. At least that place has a legitimate reason for charging membership. They screen unrated films, and apparently there is a loophole that permits it as long as the screening is controlled, seen by a select group, "a club" if you will. Or at least that's the reason they gave, and it sounded plausible. Besides, I think Caché, starring the very talented, incredible Daniel Auteuil and also Juliette Binoche is already available on DVD. While we waited in the lobby, I complemented Ayako's coat and she looked through a copy of the local entertainment weekly. I showed her a piece written by an old school friend. I'm glad she's writing for that magazine, she's among good company - Sir Bob Geldof used to write for it back in the day before he started Boomtown Rats.

Like I said, I'm bad at watching films with other people and last night was no different. Ayako told me that she had seen The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe last week, so I figured she was okay with watching English movies. Well, Syriana features a variety of languages: English, French, Arabic, Farsi and Hindi (I think), and Ayako had trouble following so we chatted through most of the film in Japanese, just the kind of stuff that used to get Alphonse and me kicked out of the cinema. Ah, good times, good times. I asked Ayako if I should grow a moustache like Jeffrey Wright. She said maybe. I asked her if I should grow a beard like George Clooney. She said no.

George Clooney opens the film selling missiles in Tehran to a guy who looks like, and whose character has the same name as my old neighbour's husband, I'm just saying. Its later revealed that Clooney plays a State Department operative who is a bit of a black sheep. Matt Damon plays an economic advisor in Geneva who is married to Amanda Peet. Through a personal tragedy, Damon's character hooks up with a power hungry prince, played by Alexander Siddig. Christopher Plummer and Jeffrey Wright follow a story line in which Wright seeks to discover how Plummer's giant oil company failed to win concessions in the Persian Gulf. And yet another story documents the life of a migrant worker who decides that he can better serve Allah as a suicide bomber, and brings all the stories full-circle (sort of). Perhaps because the film jumped around so much (Washington, Maryland, Beirut, Tehran, Texas, Persian Gulf, French Riviera, New Jersey and back again), it was hard to build interest. The political intrigue and the tension fail to heighten, and in the end the good guys lose à la Layer Cake, and the greedy energy executives win. George Clooney and Siddig get blown to smithereens by a missile sent by the CIA. Damon was in the motorcade with Siddig, but he survives and wanders through the desert for 40 years. Oh wait, that's a different story. A bit of a happy ending for Damon: After his brush with death, he decides to pack it in and follow his wife back to the States. The suicide bombers use one of the missiles provided by Clooney at the start of the film to take out an American oil delegation, but Plummer and friends remain unscathed back in the States, and are in a position to profit from their friendship with the new Emir.

So I'm going to miss tonight's Cantonese movie A War Named Desire, which is a little sad because the adverts seemed pretty good, because of K-Bear's party. And I'll have to miss Bollywood's Woh 7 Din tomorrow on account of I have to shlep Bobby's Christmas stuff out to the suburbs. And so that brings an end to this blog for 2005. I endeavour to answer nagging questions like, "Why does peach-flavoured gum taste like shit?" and many others in the new year.

But for now, I'm going to sit back and enjoy some crêpes in my own little corner of Paris and listen to BBC6 ring in the new year on GMT.

Let the Fattening Begin

The last few days have been frantically nutty. I went to Orange Peel's flat yesterday. She wanted to know a good dry cleaner, so I showed her (the only) one in the neighbourhood. She's picky because she used to work at a dry cleaning shop, but she patronized this one simply because I drove her there and she had a year's worth of dry cleaning in the boot of her car. As I waded through the sea of needles and condoms that is the entrance way to her building, I wondered how long I could make jokes about her living on the east side of the city. It turned out that her building is really tidy and well kept on the inside. I offered to wash her car because she had nothing to do that day except wrap presents. She said yes, so I left Baby parked in the rain for a few hours while I drove her sexy red Acura to another dry cleaners to pick up my own trousers and then drove it to my flat where I lovingly washed it with Maguiar's car soap and a wool wash mitt. The mitt was white and is now black after dealing with the Acura. I didn't even get the car clean. I sprayed the thing down beforehand, but I could still feel the dirt coming off as I washed it. There were a lot of pine needles and such on the car, but it was mostly road grit caked on to the apron of the car. I noticed the apron was designed for maximal downforce, and mused about the racing potential while I splashed suds on the car. Even after I was done, I could still see a light film on the paint. I didn't get all the dirt, and even as I looked at it from afar, there was still one black spot left on the passenger side door. A quick wipe down and it was gone. As a super favour and the Dax touch, I hoovered out the interior and spritzed the inside with a pear-scented body spray to cover the faint smell of spoilt fruit.

Orange Peel mentioned that she forgot to pick up beer for Christmas, and as I drove home from the dry cleaners, I noted that the government liquor stores were open in my neighbourhood. I called her and asked if she still needed beer, and what kind of petrol she puts in her cute Acura. She told me not to put petrol in, and asked me to pick up a six-pack of canned beer. It was the least I could do, and so I did and then drove her car back to her flat. We hung out for a while and that's when I saw Un homme et une femme, munching on candied almonds and puppy chow. Yup, that's what it was called, puppy chow. It tasted like some crazy mixture of peanut butter, confectioner's sugar and some ingredient to make it stay together in little balls. Her boyfriend came home and told me that he made a copy of the playlist I sent to Lola after she asked for submissions. I was surprised when he said he was able to download all the songs because I couldn't find one on iTunes that had been there a few weeks ago when I mentioned to Lola, but it wasn't there on Christmas Eve when I decided to start using my iPod Shuffle (no snickering please) and opened an account and tried to download the song. See, it was a song that I'd heard all of once in my life when the local music channel played the video. I've kept the name of the song in my head (its a simple title), and was moved to recall the song itself when I watched Tango about a month ago. The song is not in the film, but it reminded me of the song I had heard more than ten years ago. I've managed to download 25 songs from iTunes in the last day or so, and send an e-mail to Apple customer service asking why songs are available one day, but not the next. The song was actually listed on December 24th, but after I set up my account, it had miraculously disappeared. Maybe I'll be able to get the song another way...

I mentioned before that my dad likes to change up plans at the last minute. Often, this happens once per plan but for important events like oh, I dunno, Christmas there is usually a follow-up change on the day. This year, he didn't leave me disappointed. I dressed really natty and drove to dad's. I don't care what other people say about the weather in my city. Where else in the country can one drive around on Christmas without having to de-ice the windshield, let the car run for 10 minutes so that it can warm up, wonder what the hell a block heater is, and have the top down? Yes, no other place than my city. I didn't take the top down, but I coulda. I got to dad's and left Baby parked on the street, poor thing. Inside, I couldn't smell the aroma of a turkey roasting, so I was a little confused. As I mentally prepared for the shock of being told that we were meant to go rock climbing on Christmas because its something a normal family would never do, I was relieved to learn that dinner was still on -- sort of. After opening my gifts and stocking, and taking some backlash over my taste in women, Dad announced that we were going out for chinese. I asked for a few clarifications, and then jumped on board. Afterall, mountain climbing in herringbone tweed with suede elbow patches, (yes, elbow patches which explain why I've worn this blazer a total of three times in my life) is not something I relish. I took the dog for a run. The fucking dog insists on running, its like he's searching for some wayward sheep in the hills of Wales or something. He's too stupid to realize that he's never actually been to Wales, or ever seen a sheep for that matter. Would anyone ever have to put up with this stupidity from a cat? Never. My point exactly.

After dad got up from his nap, he showed me photos of his half-brother who has the same name as him. It's like a bad episode of Newhart. I can just imagine my aunt saying, "Hi, I'm Joolz. This is my brother Bill and this is my other brother Bill." The picture must have been a bad one, because my first impression of it was that my half-uncle had spent his entire stage career in the Drury Lane production of Victor Victoria. Seriously, the photo made him look like an old queen. I could swear he was wearing lipstick and pursing his lips for the camera. He's just a year older than dad, but he looks much older, and if you put a wig on him, he'd be a dead ringer for my gran. He's not a poof though, he has kids. That doesn't prove anything, I know but it is a fair indicator. He had no idea that he had a whole family in Newcastle. He was raised in the south near Hastings. And off we went to dinner...

We were the first to arrive. My dad is always early, partly because he has an uncanny sense of time and partly because he'd been a wheelman since he was fifteen, pulling jobs all over town with his younger brother in tow. He's out of that now, but I learned all my wheelman skills from him, and he still drives like a madman. The staff were actually a bit rude to us until our asian friends arrived. Then they were soooo nice. My dad's girlfriend's baby brother put this together, and topped it with a bottle of mao tai jiu. I'd never tried the stuff, and I now can use Baby as an excuse. I don't want no more nights like my sister's wedding. Bobby got done and had his license pulled for 24 hours - zero tolerance for Novice drivers. Stupidly, I was riding with him, but the copper let us go on account of Bobby and I both looked dead sexy in our kilts, my expert legal knowledge (This wasn't going to be another Rodney King flashpoint if I had anything to say about it), and we also had a stone-cold sober passenger riding shotgun. To be polite, I had a half-shot. I've never tested the theory, but I think there is a plethora of household cleansers that would taste less vile than mao tai jiu, or its evil cousin fen jiu. The Christmas dinner started off very slow. First up, deep fried crab. Its a must have for my dad's girlfriend, but I stay away from it because its still in the shell and I'd have to use chop sticks and all. And the stuff had been prepared super extra spicy. I noticed that the restaurant also prepared the shell and all its offal goodness. I grabbed that and used a fork to eat it. I like crab offal, in Japan they serve it raw and call it kani miso (yum yum yummmmmm), so I figured that if I ate it deep fried it would be about the same. We had waited so long for this dish, that I was famished by the time I tucked in. My kid brother is like, nine and he still gets his crab shelled for him. He is spoilt by his mummy. We also waited so long for the second course that I thought that the crab was all we ordered. After about the third course, things started rolling, and I stuffed myself daft. By the time the last dish (after dessert) came, I could only manage to eat one piece, and only did that because my dad's girlfriend doesn't take refusals lightly. Besides, gai lan is delicious. It's like broccoli stems, but without the bad propaganda. Despite some unpleasantness from our host and an obvious violation of fire code due to the seating capacity, the dinner went off without a hitch. I refuse to toady to a man, who's only been exposed to a free-market economy for a very short period of his life, preach to the converted about how our economy needs just a little more corruption, just because he's picking up the tab. We could be proud, he said, and have a fast growing economy just like China. It's hard to explain the mechanisms of a stable free-market economy to a guy who's won't be convinced, but I essentially made it known that China's "free" market economy is based on very flimsy underpinnings, and had basically lost out to India. Of course, I used the name of an innocent third party country (an nyong!) because if I had touted India at the table, I probably would have received a kwai zi, or maybe a fork to the eye and he had a good shot from where he was sitting.

The sweetness of the whole evening was his daughter, technically my cousin. She's all of about 2 years old and is the cutest button you'd ever see, and looks just like an old girlfriend did in the single baby photo her mum covertly showed me years ago. The baby doesn't remember me, she'd only met me once before. She got a pair of clip-on earrings for Christmas, and looked like she had been overcome with stage fright when Grandma Stone first put them on her, but after everyone clapped, she knew she was the centre of attention. She wouldn't speak to me or my father until I asked to try on her earrings. Well, she thought this was the funniest thing ever, and after I tried them on, she made everybody try them. She's also at that age where the ice cubes in the glass of water are more appetizing than the water, but still won't feed herself. Instead, she just kind of leans in with her mouth agape to let you know that she wants what's on your plate. Or, if you're across the table, she licks her lips even for ice cubes. So, after I drank the water I passed her my glass so that she could have ice cubes for dinner.

Then came the beatdown. Image is very important to my dad's girlfriend's baby brother and his wife. To that end, they have enrolled their son in a private school. I had to bend over backward to ensure the father that, based on my expert linguistic opinion your Honour, the boy had no trace of a chinese accent, which was kind of hard as the kid had taken a vow of silence for Christmas and only looked up from his Gameboy long enough to shake or nod his head. The boy was so pre-occupied by his Gameboy that he didn't watch where he put his food down. On the floor, or on the tablecloth, it didn't really matter to him. But if it didn't come back down on the plate, it mattered to his mother. She had forked out a load of dosh so that her son could attend a prep school and manners were absent at the table. Rabbit punches rained down like hammers of communism. I almost threw myself between the fists and the 7 year old boy who was built like a 4 year old, but remembered the advice I received while working with President Bill Clinton and other Heads of State - Don't take a bullet, let the professionals do it, and the mother stopped before I could intervene. For his part, the kid seemed unphased so I didn't pursue the issue. Secretly, I had to commend the mother on her beatdown skills and her mastery of Korean-style rabbit punching. I had grown up familiar with a smart smack on the backside and worse but not like jumping rope or hot irons or anything, but when I met Mrs. Park I learned an even more cunning method of beating. She used to beat her daughters with closed fists, rabbit punching their thighs. Even as grown women, they would run when their mother threatened to punch the legs. A good amount of pain for zero to minimal bruising. Well, now the 7 year old was getting what his mother learned at the Mrs. Park School for Wayward Girls - Shanghai branch.

And where was Hank during all of this? Shmoozing Ayako, that's where. Or so I thought, so I couldn't enjoy myself completely. My kid brother offered a few suggestions to get back at Hank, but coming from a second-former these suggestions had only a limited amount of intrigue. After dinner I went back to my dad's place and watched Texas Hold'em on the telly. A few friends talk about this game like it's the shit. I don't find it any more exciting than regular 5-card stud poker, which I find incredibly boring. I guess when you're actually playing and have money involved, there is some sort of rush. I apologized to Baby for leaving her out in the rain for 8 hours. She's been in a sore mood ever since we saw Concha, the cute red Acura. When we got back to the flat, I went down in the lift to deliver Hank's gifts and ended up speaking to his roommate. She told me that Ayako was not out with Hank, but with Hank's other roommate Kazu. My brain started to get a little fuzzy, but I let it go. This Kazu is probably a total lame ass. I know he's a loner, so the lame ass stuff is probably also true, and I can beat that any day (maybe).

So its that time of year again to chow down on chocs and nuts. I just polished off a chocolate bar that Santa left me that should have had a warning on it along the lines of "If you're not diabetic now, you soon will be" and a fine bottle of Holy Grail Ale that somehow found its way into my stocking. I'm about to try my scratcher. A grand a week for 25 years (tax free!) feels sugary sweet right now. Imagine all the things that Baby and I (oh yeah, and Ayako) could do with that kind of dosh. I haven't done the calculations, but I think I'd rather take the future value of the cash stream, than take the present value of all future cash inflows which is what the lottery corporation is likely to throw in front of my face should I have a lucky scratcher. I hate betting against interest rates. Sorry, I was channeling the spirit of an accountant there for a mo.

This year of 2005 has been quite a good one on the whole. January saw me adopting a neglected Baby, ignored by the dealership because she's a 2003 model, but brand new underneath. There have been a few negatives this year, but I've learned to think like my ex-manager - Step #1, Deny deny deny until you can't deny anymore, and then spin the negative into a positive. Step #2, Ingest daily dose of Paxil if necessary. So by that logic, the year has been chock full of positives. Really though, through all the trials and chores I have learned a lot about myself and others in general. That makes all the bad good. And in contrast to all the bad, the goodness of true friends really shined through, like a freaking lighthouse or something. Thanks to my recruiter, I'm gonna hit the ground running in 2006 and I couldn't ask to be in a better position. As for movies, the end of 2005 has brought a load of turnips. I was tempted to stick around work late on Friday and then mosey on over to the "art house" cinema and watch Syriana, a film I touted a few months back but I rushed home instead to remove the coffee stains on my French cuffs that had been so rude as to barge into my life Friday morning. Also, Friday night's Cantonese film Oh, My Three Guys wasn't worth watching, plus the reception was too fuzzy so I couldn't read the subtitles, So I let it play in the background while I worked on the blog. Yesterday's Bollywood film was a repeat, but it was really good when I saw it the first time. Qurbani stars Vinod Khanna, father of Akshaye Khanna one of my favourite actors which actually makes my Hindi friends laugh. Apparently Akshaye is considered a weak actor, and after seeing his dad a few times I'd have to agree. The movie also co-stars Zeenat Aman, the most beautiful woman in Bollywood at the time, based on her appearance in the film and the fact that my telly has fuzzy reception. Sunday night's movie Bai fan bai gan jue 2 or Feel 100% II looked pretty good but I turned it off because I was tired and the subtitles were too fuzzy. And watching a bit of this film, I could have sworn that it had Sammi Cheung in it, but I was wrong. It also might have helped if I had seen Feel 100%, the original before this one to get some sort of back story.

The end of 2005 is looking up as a New Year's Eve K-Bear is in the works. It's been a while since I've seen him, and it should be fun. Nothing like last year, ah good times, but measured doses of fun can be very relaxing too. I can't wait to tell him about all the work I've done on the movie. Maybe he'll sign the contract now. I still haven't been able to find a dancing bear this side of Russia, but that's basically all that's holding up the talent. Everything else is in place.

The Glass is Half Full

Finally, a post about movies! But I'll get to that later. I have to say that the pace of life has stepped up a notch or two lately. I started a new job, and got two days in before the Christmas break. This job is so sweet. It will be difficult to highlight the positives without discussing the negatives of previous jobs, but I'll give it a go.

First of all, I have an office. Not just any ordinary office, but an office big enough to swing a cat in. Mittens didn't like that, but in the pursuit of accuracy, my cat will contribute. She hasn't come out from under the bed since Thursday evening. She's mad. Seriously though, at my last job I had an office where I'd knock my knees every time I tried to swivel my chair. I had to slink sideways just to get around the desk. This office also has windows, and after working in a bunker for six years, windows are an extravagance. An extravagance with blinds even, that I can open and close as I please. Mr. Sun came out on Thursday, so I opened the blinds. I let out an expression of glee à la Stimpy as I began to enjoy what was left of daylight on the shortest day of the year.

Second, the company pipes music into the toilets. Ahhh, a true oasis. A bit of a weird thing happened yesterday. I was in the bog when I thought I heard a woman's voice. I looked around, it was definitely a men's room but maybe this company was so forward-thinking that it was actually European in some way. My brain zipped back through the archive until it arrived at March, 1987: Mont Saint Michel, France. Yes, in fact there exists unisex toilets so I hadn't walked into the Ladies' by accident. The woman's voice actually belonged to a young boy, who hasn't learned two of life's important lessons yet.

That brings me to my third point. The company actually lets employees bring their munchkins to the office, though I suspect this is not a normal occurrence as the kid was probably on Christmas break from school. Now the two lessons that the kid might have learned had he had gone to school that day: #1 - Don't strike up conversations with strangers in toilets. #2 - Do be careful what you ask strangers. You might think its okay to ask any question, but that really only works with your mummy and daddy. I went to ask one of my co-workers where I could find the copier, and suddenly the kid asked, "What's wrong with your leg?" My co-worker raised her eyebrows, in a kinda "don't look at me, he's not my kid" way. When he regained consciousness, I explained that I had been born with a limp and that it had always been that way. Actually, I took the question in stride on account of the fact that it was kid, and I was used to being asked.

Perk #4 - I actually get a parking space!! Yes. I'd always dreamt of having a parking space. An adaptation of the Kinsella maxim benefitted me: If you buy it, it will come. So I eventually bought Baby, and the parking space followed. I doesn't matter that the spot is two blocks from the office and that Baby will be exposed to the elements. I.Got.A.Parking.Space.

The fifth point is that I have totally changed my outlook. I did something that I hadn't done for about 2 and a half years. I was happy to go to work. A definite spring in my step developed, something I'd missed for a while at my last full-time job. And the new job starts at 09:00, a normal time. My last FT started at 08:00, I don't know why they came up with that choice. I can only posit that 08:00 was chosen because its just a little abnormal. One hour really makes a difference, especially for someone like me who would take 4 hours to get ready in the morning, if I could.

The sixth and final point is that my new co-workers actually have fun. Engineers are known for being master pranksters, and I might actually fit in here, but yesterday there was a mini-golf tourney organized in the office. Between 16:00 and 17:00 it was not safe to come out of offices because golf balls were flying everywhere.

The very sad thing about this job is that the guy I am temping for can come back at any time. I have a competing offer from another firm, but I'd rather stay at this one.

So ecstatic was I about landing a new job, albeit temp, I decided to press my luck even further. After my first day at work, I rushed home and grabbed my textbooks for my evening class. I drove out to campus and not only did I get free parking, the class was only an hour long. Double score! I now had plenty of time to try my next move. I popped by Ayako's workplace, and she was there. She is so cool. I asked her for her number, but she said she didn't remember. She pretended to dial and told me the numbers as they came to mind. She grabbed my hand as I tried to write down the number. She made me memorize it, which I guess is her way of saying "If you can remember my phone number, then you are really interested in me." As I tried to recite the number back to her, she started saying random numbers to throw me off. I like that sense of humour. I just called her to make sure I had the number right and to wish her merii kurisumasu.

I had also rented a movie that night and at the shop where Ayako works, I grabbed some sushi, a ficelle and some egg nog. Okay, the egg nog was an impulse buy but it was bottled by a dairy that is run by an old schoolmate's family. I thought I'd throw a few bucks her way, and now that I have Baby, I can visit the dairy myself. It's the last one left in the city. The sushi was a smoked salmon affair, with cream cheese packed inside. Technically, smoked salmon is cooked but I thought there was great potential for a bacteria festival in my tum-tum. Had I known there was cream cheese in the sushi, I probably would not have bought it. The ficelle was really nice, I might have to buy more.

Okay, now for the movie. There's so much more I was going to write about, but it is Christmas Eve and I'm knackered. A few months ago, I decided to enter the realm of Takashi Miike film. I do not regret doing so, but many others may find the level of violence in his films disturbing. For those who think Quentin Tarantino is a film-making genius, keep in mind that he pretty much ripped off, or found inspiration for Pulp Fiction from the work of Miike. First I rented Ôdishon, and then I rented Ichi the Killer. Both films I liked, so the next time I was at the video shop I noticed a film called Ichi Zero. I checked this film out on the net and found that it tells a lot of the back story behind Ichi. The other night, I went to the shop to get Classe tous risques, starring Jean-Paul Belmondo and Lino Ventura. I guess the last time I asked for this film, the guy lied to me because I found out the second time that the shop doesn't even have this film. Then I asked for my back up, Touchez pas au grisbi. That one was out. Another shot in the dark on Ripoux 3 came up empty. So then I asked for Ichi Zero, and I have to say that I was a little upset when I got home. Somewhere, somehow the internet research failed to mention, or I forgot that this film was entirely a cartoon -- a cartoon of sex and violence.

I have to say that limits are good in some cases, like cartoon sex. Cartoons and sex should not go together. I know, there's a very successful market for cartoon porn, and I realize that everybody has their kinks, but I just don't get cartoon sex. How does an animator go from drawing Tom and Jerry, and progress to sex? That's a big leap for me, and one that my brain just won't accept. I expected the violence because well, its Ichi but the sex and the violent sex to boot? No way. On top of all that, Ichi Zero doesn't really tell a lot of the back story. More accurately, it tells some back story and parallels some of the live action film Ichi the Killer. The movie is only about an hour long, and Takashi Miike had absolutely nothing to do with it. I wouldn't recommend wasting time or money on Ichi Zero. I will say though, that the music in the film was pretty good for a cartoon.

I can also say that I reached a balance against this piece of crap film today. I was over at Orange Peel's flat and happened to catch the very beginning of Un homme et une femme starring Anouk Aimée and Jean-Louis Trintignant on a sports channel no less. This film features the always lovely tune A Man and Woman by Francis Lai. This is one of the best instrumentals ever featured in film. The film progressed slowly, and I turned it off after the first fifteen minutes. Afterall, it was the dubbed version. I've never seen the film all the way through, only seeing the last half hour a few years ago when I had cable television. As I've said before, music in film is important to me and this film is a prime example. I'd watch this film just for the music, and the Mustang of course.

There Is a Cabal...

and it wants me to be alone. The cabal consists of Dad, Sissy, and possibly my dad's partner. I don't want to believe this, but it may also involve Hank, in which case the cabal has even more sinister motives.

My dad is famous for not getting involved in a project unless he retains total control. He is also famous for changing the project at the last minute (or as close as possible). That way, he always makes the last move and rips away any concessions. I knew this was going to happen, but I thought that I would be able to see it coming. He called me tonight and told me that he was changing plans for Christmas. He vetoed any chance of Miki coming to dinner. I just called her and let her down. She didn't sound too upset. I asked her out for Friday instead, on account of I'm getting a salary packet now but guess what? She's busy.

So the obvious question is: Why would Dad veto Miki? He's never met her so it couldn't possibly be based on past events. Or could it? Well, Dad disapproves of all my girlfriends, unless she has large(ish) breasts in which case he wants to cop a feel. She could have a PhD from Harvard, win beauty pageants as a hobby and develop a cure for the common cold in her spare time, and she still wouldn't be good enough.

Sissy also has an axe to grind. She calls it "protective advice", but seriously, if she listened to her own advice she never would have landed her husband. I had to facilitate that whole process as well, and despite all that she still cuts me off at the knees. Apart from offering unsolicited, deliberately misleading counsel, Sissy will trash talk, or at least not say anything complementary about any woman I show the slightest interest in. I guess its her way of saying "Choose family, or choose her. You can't have both".

Dad will also talk trash about my girlfriends if they happen to belong to a particular racial group. He had a bad experience with a woman from that particular group, and now he assumes that all women in that group are out to burn me. The astoundingly hypocritical part of it is that his partner is a member of said racial group.

At this rate, any chance of a meaningful relationship with anyone of any particular group is approximating zero. I'm fighting a losing battle here.

Wakata Means I Like You

I am on form these days. Some good things, some bad things but what surprised me is how I prepare for it. Yesterday was going to be a big day. Two interviews, news of another and a hair appointment. I had to be sharp, and actually woke from my slumber switching between Japanese and Spanish because you never know when you're going to get the call at the last minute to facilitate a summit between Junichiro Koizumi and José Maria Asnar and save the world. In Japanese -- "My name is Dax. I am a fatty", and in Spanish -- "One more song. No. I'm not going to listen to this music" as strains of U2 came on my radio. "Wotoshi no namae wa Daksu desu. Wotoshi wa debu desu. Una canción más. No. No voy a escuchar." The stuff didn't make sense, and I have no idea if the Japanese was actually correct, but like I said I was half asleep when I started. I was just surprised at how my brain jumpstarted knowing that I had to be sharp yesterday, and I was also surprised because when I want to get my brain going in the morning, I usually practice Hindi.

I said in my last post that I didn't want to jinx an opportunity, but apparently I did. I wanted to keep it on the DL because it would have been a plum job, working for the national arm of the professional association I belong to. That's like, I dunno, working for the Queen, but then actually getting to work at Buckingham, or Windsor or whatever, too. Well, I'm not keeping it secret any more because I didn't get to go forward to the next round of interviews.

The domino effect of the bad news caused me to go to another interview, and come across as withdrawn. At least that's what I'm blaming it on, because I think I blew that job opportunity as well. That's too bad because it was an even better opportunity than the one before, but of course I couldn't see that because I was still brooding over the bad news. My recruiter is going to try and salvage that one for me.

The second interview was for a contract position. You know your interview is with a creative firm when you get off the lift and the receptionist is walking around barefoot. The first interviewer warned me that the accounting department was very cliquey. That became immediately apparent during the second part of the interview. One of the two interviewers stared at me the whole time. I couldn't tell if she was checking out my pipes, or if she was silently disapproving. Either way, she gave off a really negative vibe, which is too bad because the location and salary were just right.

I shlepped around town yesterday, but luckily I did most of the shlepping before the rain started pouring. After the interviews, I went to get a haircut. On the way, I stopped by Ayako's workplace to say hello. She wasn't working, but I did see one of Hank's poker buddies there. I told him that I was there to see Ayako, so maybe he'll put a bug in her ear. I also popped by my old workplace to pick up some books that keep getting delivered there instead of my home. I chatted with some friends and then trod through the rain to my hair appointment.

"Konichi wa! Sumimasen, I am here for my appointment."
"Hi Dax. Gomenasai, but we are running behind. Is it okay?"
"No problem. Have you eaten? I'll pop over to Kakihara's and pick something up for you."
"Arigato! 1 dynamite roll, 1 saba roll and 1 nattou box."
"Kakihara doesn't have nattou."
"Yes he does, but you have to ask for it."

Off I went to Kaki-san's and gave the order. I also told him that I had recently met one of his neighbours and ordered my own late lunch. Back at the salon, I dropped off the sushi order and kept waiting. My stylist had one in the chair, one under the dryer and me waiting to go. I didn't mind, it gave me a chance to relax and read a scathing indictment of George Bush and his disastrous second term. Plus, there's usually a lot of eye candy in hair salons. I got my hair done, but my stylist couldn't do any plucking because she was too busy. She asked me to come back after Christmas. Her wax guy wasn't around, so I was out of luck there too. I told her all about Ayako and my dilemma about Miki. Her advice was quite clear, so far nobody's advising me to give up on Ayako. Did I mention that she likes nattou?

At Hank's house party, Ayako heard that I was a twin. Wide-eyed, she asked, "Really?"
"Joku nai."
And she asked in further anticipation, "Same face?"
"No, gomen."

When I told her that I was the younger twin, she concluded that I was born first. I corrected her, and then she said that in Japan, the younger twin is always born first. Now, this doesn't sound as far-fetched as one might think. Maybe in some parts of Asia, there are differences of opinion regarding multiple births. I've had to clear up misconceptions about twins for a Korean friend (complete with drawings) and I think I was able to convince her, or at least convince her of how I understood my situation. But there was no way I could convince Ayako about birth order. I just smiled, nodded and said, "Oh, really? Wakata", because afterall I didn't really know that she was wrong. Then I helped her do some research about her job. She didn't know her boss' reputation cuz well, she's not from around here, so I showed her on the internet, and helped her put together a dossier.

By the time I got home yesterday, I was soaked right through even though I did have a brolly. A neighbour commented that I looked like a wet puppy as I got in the lift. I didn't get in her face because she drives a sexy silver Porsche, and her girlfriend asked me to wash it the day before when she saw me washing Baby. I said I would wash it, but that she had to let me drive it to the designated car washing stall in the car park, a total distance of approximately 500 feet. No dice.

There was a message on my machine from my recruiter. I wish I had met this guy a year ago, he's phenomenal. He had a job for me! A real job, my wheelman days are over. It was after five, but I called him anyway. Somebody answered, but it wasn't him so I left a message. I called him again this morning and he told me that that job was filled, but that he had another job for me to start tomorrow. He had put me forward for a different job at the same place a few weeks ago, but I didn't get it. So I'll have to wait another day for the call from Koizumi, and until then I'll have to save the world in other ways. Finally, I'm making money again, but it comes at a price. I'll have to bail on my pre-Christmas get together with a few friends. They might have more fun without me.

Movie section: I stayed up late last week and was able to catch a real gem. THE gem actually. This movie is the top-grossing film of all time at the domestic box office. In Italy anyway. Johnny Stecchino stars Roberto Benigni and his wife Nicoletta Braschi. I'd seen this movie before about ten years ago, but I'm thinking it was without subtitles because I remember it slightly differently. Benigni (Dante) plays a school bus driver who gets wrapped up with a mob wife whose husband is Dante's doppelganger, Johnny. Johnny is in hiding in Sicily because all of Palermo wants him dead. Braschi (Maria) brings Dante to Palermo and a series of misinterpretations manages to keep Dante in the dark completely about why he is there. Maria wants Dante to be killed in public so that she and Johnny can move about freely, but in the movie she eventually falls for Dante, and delivers Johnny to his enemies. She flees Sicily with millions and Dante returns to his city vacant and blissful, and resumes driving the school bus. It's a standard lookalike plot, but evidently the Italians ate it up like gelato. This is the movie that actually made me want to move to Rome. I don't know why because it's never revealed where Dante lives. Anyway, Rome didn't scare me after this film. It wasn't La Vità è Bella, but it was a nice bit of brain candy.

Not Even a Red Bull Could Save Me Now

This was a note I wrote to friends at my old employment to give them a taste of what I had left them for. It's not really relevant now, but a few people wanted to see it on my blog:

It's over. Well, it will be over later tonight but my part is done. The 100 Hole Golf Challenge is all but a distant memory for me, and I'm so out of it, I'm not even sure it really happened. The day's schedule was something like this (with almost military precision - Dad should be proud):

03:00 Reveille
03:01 Start getting ready
03:30 RED BULL *critical*
03:35 Shave
03:47 What the heck, eat some toast. I'm gonna have breakfast later anyway.
03:55 Finish getting ready *wear event cap*
04:15 Insert preselected Tito Puente CD into the Jeep stereo
04:16 Note starting vehicle mileage
04:17 Commence manoeuvres
04:30 Arrive at west end location to rendezvous with specialist
04:52 Specialist Williams AWOL!! Note: Running 7 minutes late
04:53 Brief Specialist Williams - Resume manoeuvres
04:53:07 Note: Specialist Williams NOT wearing event cap
05:23 Miss target drop - Navigator Williams unfamiliar with Pt. Coquitlam
05:28 Arrive at Lougheed Hwy. @ Harris Rd. Turn around.
05:33 Arrive at target drop. Station vehicle away from golf course
** Three minutes late **
05:35 Set up tents
06:00 Commence participant sign up
06:30 Brief Commanding Officer
07:00 Shotgun start to event
07:01 Reconcile sign up with pledges received
07:30 Mess
08:00 Hurry up and wait
08:30 Surveil event in golf cart
08:45 Abort surveillance due to deteriorating weather and whiny sergeant
09:00 Wait
09:30 Practice for the putting challenge
10:00 Specialist Williams is crashing - refuses caffeine
10:05 Brief Lieutenant on event progress
10:10 Administer first aid to self
10:15 Resume briefing
10:30 Golfer down. Marshall golfer to clubhouse for meal and early leave
10:45 Wait
11:00 Brief event chef
11:30 Marshall participants to lunch mess
12:00 Lunch mess
12:30 Final orders and dismissal
12:45 Depart event - Specialist Williams needs further sleep deprivation training
13:45 Drop Specialist Williams at quarters
14:00 Arrive at home quarters
14:01 Note ending vehicle mileage

And just to put the icing on the cake, I had to take the long way around because construction crews had closed my block to dismantle a crane. All in all, the event went fairly well from my perspective. Though we didn't have as many participants as in previous years, and we lost one golfer before the 4 hour mark, the remaining participants had a good time and didn't mind the rain. So, what have I learned after getting up when the only other people out at that hour are striking Telus workers? I learned that things are not always as bad as I think they can be. What did it get me?

1)A nice drive in a hard rain. Thank the stars for zero traffic;
2)About $40 for a vehicle mileage reimbursement;
3)A big gash to the forehead at 05:56:47;
4)A whole lot of information about the organization I am working for.

I figured the Red Bull would hold me until at least lunch, but it was a bad sign when I started to fall asleep in the shower ten minutes after getting up. I was starting to tune out at about 09:00 but I attributed that to the probable concussion and obvious blood loss. After a few cups of coffee, I was back up and fine until I got home. I walked in the door and just wanted to crash, but I did homework instead. Dork!

Now, on a completely unrelated topic - some of you may know that Layer Cake was the best film re-release of 2005, or at least I thought it was. Daniel Craig, the lead in the film whose character never actually had a name, is in the running for the role of the next James Bond. I think he'd be rather good.

When It Rains, It Pours

In Rabbi Part II, I announced intentions to invite Mika to Christmas dinner with my father. It turns out that Christmas dinner with dad is going to be a rather small affair. I reckoned that my dad and his new family would attend, but my dad's partner has decided to open her shop on Christmas. I don't know too many people who do grocery shopping on Christmas, or Hanukkah which falls on the same day this year but when the shop opens it means that half the family won't be there.
Bobby isn't coming for Christmas, and Sissy is going to the in-laws'. That means that Christmas will be a grand total of four people (if Mika says yes). Me, Mika, Dad and my kid brother. As it turned out, my friend who also happens to be Mika's co-worker, gave my phone number to someone else. She was under the impression that I was interested in a third person. She says its probably better that way on account of the fact that Mika's boyfriend happens to be a champion kickboxer. I mentioned my brief career in muay thai, but he could probably still kick my butt. That means we're down to three for Christmas, and a real sausage fest.

I also mentioned on the blog that I had a back up plan in case of events such as jealous kick boxing boyfriends. Another friend has a room mate, and I asked him for her number, but he wouldn't give it to me. Instead, we reduced ourselves to behaving like students in the upper second form, and he asked her for me. For me to get the answer required that I attend a house party last night. Miki said yes, contingent upon her not working that day. She gave herself an out, I can appreciate that and I won't press the issue if she just so happens to find a job between now and Christmas working in an office that happens to be open on the day.

The problem is, I'm not sure if I want her to come. See, I met someone else last night -- Ayako. Ayako likes nattou, so I figure she's got to be just a little freaky. I'm a little reserved because, like Yumi's being a vegetarian which I just can't abide, Ayako doesn't drink beer. I can abide that, but it will be so trying. Now, because I stupidly didn't get her number, I'll have to ask Miki for it when I call Miki to let her tell me she can't make it. I never ask for numbers. I always feel that its extremely forward to do so. I think I just realized why I have a hard time meeting women. It's raining, and it's pouring in so many ways for me right now. With regard to the Miki/Ayako dilemma, my good friend Big Bank Hank, my confederate in this whole matter just simply advised "Toss a coin". So callous, yet so simple.

Even though things seem to be going my way (there's more, but I don't want to jinx it), it means that other things have had to go wrong in my world. They did, but thanks to Sissy a temporary solution was accorded. My bank, my new bank that has been begging me to join for months, had "inadvertently" cut me off from my funds. That meant that I had to go the whole weekend with no cash, but Sissy came to the rescue and fronted me a couple bucks.

I also got a form letter from my dealership advising that there was a recall on my vehicle. Nooooooo! My brand new Baby was going to have to go to the wrecker after only being spoiled rotten for less than a year, and having just 2646 km. on her odometer. The letter advised me to call the dealership about the recall, so I did. It turns out that the recall notice was only a possible recall. Absolutely nothing wrong with Baby, but the dealership recommended that I bring her in for a free winter service. I called them last week, and the earliest that Baby could get an appointment was today. I got up early - super early at ten to eight, and got Baby ready to go. We went to the dealership, and Bobbi the service tech told me that the service wasn't needed because Baby had packed on less than 700 km. since her last visit. I mentioned the possibility of an evil condensation build up, and Bobbi said, "I'll put you in for an oil change if you REAAAAAALLY want one, but it's not necessary. Just hang on to that letter and come back in a few months."

Sweet, that saved me time. I took the opportunity to get Baby home and washed. Even though it was raining out, Baby hadn't had a proper wash since manoeuvres at Carnoustie back in September/October, and Christmas is coming up. I want my Baby to look her best when we stop to collect either Miki or Ayako. Here's hoping that Ayako makes it four at Christmas. As for New Year's Eve.....

As for movies, since this is supposed to be a blog about movies, I was shut out this weekend. Saturday night, there was a movie called "Flying Dagger" on television, but it was so ridiculous I switched over to watch Jack Black whore himself out to promote King Kong on SNL. Sunday afternoon, a Bollywood film called Company was on. This was the second time I'd seen it, and I guess I missed a big chunk of it the first time because it didn't make sense, but yesterday it made sense. The film stars Ajay Devgan, husband of the most beautiful woman in Bollywood Kajol Mukherjee, and Vivek Oberoi, alleged fiance of perhaps the second most beautiful woman in Bollywood Aishwarya Rai. It's a gangland film, purportedly based on real events. Devgan plays the mob boss, who hires freelance Oberoi to take on jobs for him. Oberoi quickly becomes the favoured member of the gang, but turns on Devgan. I can't be sure, but I think it had something to do with a girl. Anyway, the movie goes on and the gang squad police detective finally gets Oberoi in prison. While in prison, Oberoi takes his revenge on Devgan, whose character ends up dead in HK.

Sunday night's HK film was also a repeat, C'est la Vie, mon Cheri. I really wish I could have seen this one again because I didn't quite follow it the first time around, but I didn't get back from the house party until the film was already half over.

Not a Post About Movies in the Slightest

Sometimes I can be really stupid, like maddeningly stupid. Take yesterday or the day before as an example: The annual fire inspection was due and since I had to go out the day before yesterday, I gave the key to my flat to my neighbour who also happens to be the maintenance guy for the building. On my way out, I went to the manager's office and let them know who had my key in case the inspector came by.

The manager scoffed in his New Zealander accent, "That's got nothing to do with me".
Wot? The maintenance guy, an employee of the management company who also employs the building manager has nothing to do with you? Seriously, the building manager is usually a nice guy, but he's been pissy for awhile due to the fire inspection. Anyway, he told me that the inspectors would be back the next day.

Yesterday, I woke up early. My clock said 8:49, so I closed my eyes for a little bit. The next time I looked at the clock, it was 9:43. I had to get up to let the fire inspectors in, so I jumped out of bed and waited for them. And waited. And waited some more. At 11:30, I went down to the lobby to check with one of the inspectors. He told me that his buddy was on the 19th floor and working his way down. I gave the thumbs up, and went back upstairs to wait. And wait. And wait some more. Finally, at 3:45 I went downstairs to find the inspectors. They'd gone, bastards. I called the building manager and he told me that he and the inspectors had come to my flat at ten after nine in the morning.

"Did you knock loudly?"

"Oh yes, I knocked so loud that your neighbours opened their doors thinking we'd come to them."

Fire inspections are a big deal. It says so in the notice that the management company hastily posted in the lift. If the flats aren't inspected, our insurance policies are void. That's why I was so concerned about getting the flat inspected in the first place.

"What happened last year?", he asked. "If you had the flat inspected last year, then you're fine. You only need to have it inspected every three years." They don't put that in the notice in the lift. I had to take a deep breath on that one and stop myself from slamming down the phone. I was sitting on the divan trying to stay warm, and I hadn't even had a shower yet because I was afraid that the inspectors would come then.

That's just the prelude to the stupidity. Today, somewhat already irritated by my bank, I set out for my daily fix. On my coffee run I sent out some resumes for jobs that specifically asked for faxed documents. I don't have a fax machine, but there are 3 minimarts and a Western Union in a 1 block radius of my flat, and a fourth mini another block away. One I don't patronize because of philosophical differences, bastards. Another one is hidden among the nail and hair salons, and is further obscured by an abundance of lottery and phone card advertisements covering the window spaces. A third place (the furthest) is the newest minimart and has quite friendly proprietors. I went there to ask for fax service. I figured a 4-page fax would cost me a deuce, or maybe a buck a page. Try a deuce per page for local service. Yup, and there's no way to tell if the fax went through!

In a dazzling display of income skimming, the shopkeeper took my twenty and gave me $4 back, but didn't ring in the sale. A lot of shopkeepers do this. It under-reports income and allows a cash-based business to get away from paying tax on thousands every week. I don't care. All I can do is pay my taxes and hope that they get caught. 2 faxes and $16 later, I bought my coffee and retraced my steps home. On the way, I stopped at the closest minimart to my flat. I'd never been to this one before, but my dad loves it. Seriously, he LOVES this minimart, he'd marry it if it were legal (and it may soon be). He's convinced the owners are millionaires and all they had to do for it was sell lottery tickets and pantyhose, but amazingly its still too much work (responsibility) for him. Right Dad, its so simple to make it rich. I stopped in and asked if they offered fax services. They do, at a buck a page. Sweet. the next time I need a fax machine I'm going there, its closer anyhow. The stupid part is that I stupidly ignored this shop to begin with. Then, I stupidly told them that I had just stupidly paid $2 a page to stupidly send faxes at another shop. How much do you want to bet that this place doubled their price the second I walked out the door?

Aunty's Shortbread

So like I said in the last post, not all of my family is Jewish and most of them celebrate Christmas. There's a thing that one of my aunts does at Christmas. She makes shortbread. This is her thing, and she does it so well that nobody in the family challenges her or attempts to rival her ability. I don't know if its her recipe, but she does it so well that it has become her recipe.

Believe me. I know what I'm talking about. I've had good shortbread and I've had bad shortbread. The hacks might say that there are different kinds of shortbread, and that they can't all be compared to the shortbread. I usually want to respond to that weak defense with a wry "Yes, I suppose you're right. Some things shouldn't be compared: such as different kinds of poo... and your shortbread." But I can't because see, even if someone makes crap shortbread, they should be commended for the attempt because it is difficult. Not everyone can make shortbread that makes your tongue say "Oh, I'll have another." But now I know two people.

My sister decided to try, but she made us promise (me and Bobby) that we wouldn't tell anyone unless it was a success. I don't know why she chose to do it this year, but she always overcommits herself and I was there so I tried to keep the munchkin out of her hair. I was going to help make the shortbread so that my sister would have a scapegoat if the stuff was no good, but the first instruction was "knead the butter." Not cream the butter - knead the butter so I just kinda said no to that. Sissy started with cold butter. Nutter. Not even tacky butter, I would have waited for the butter to soften a little but before kneading it.

She started complaining after fifteen minutes (and several batches of lemon squares, peanut butter cookies and Kathy Lee bear claws). "You don't have the wrists!", I called from the salon. Aunty has huge forearms, like Popeye and I'm pretty sure they got that way from years of cooking and baking. Then Bobby, the last guy I'd ever take cooking advice from, said "Take it out of the bowl, and knead it on the counter." That actually worked, Sissy could get a better torque on the dough.

Aunty usually does her shortbread in rounds with wedges that can be broken off as needed. Sissy asked if she should do bars or rounds. I said rounds. She did them in balls that flatten out to little cookies in the oven. I totally expected this shortbread to be on the bad side, but it wasn't. It was good. Dare I say, even better than Aunty's.

That's why I was not able to watch the Bollywood movie this week. I was at Sissy's looking after the Munchkin. I missed Prahaar, a 1991 film by Nana Patekar whose acting I really like even though he often plays a villain or a weenie hero. I first came across this guy in Salaam Bombay! where he played Babu the pimp. I think its the fact that he's pretty scrawny but still talks like a tough guy in a tone that makes you believe it. That's what I like about Patekar. From what I gather the film is about an army officer who is disillusioned by what he sees going on around him. If I see it later, I see it. This week's movie "Roop Ki Rani Choron Ka Raja", the 1993 version should have plenty of dance number scenes. That's why I watch Bollywood (plus the plot jumping). I did a little research and apparently this film was a commercial disaster, so I may eat my words. I imagine it has something to do with Johnny Lever.

What the munchkin and I watched instead was a bunch of Winnie the Pooh videos, How the Grinch Stole Christmas, and Horton Hears a Who! I was all ready to tell the munchkin that these cartoons were written by a pot-smoking communist <--- opinion, but after convincing her that the Grinch's dog was named Dave (just cuz) and watching Horton play out (I admit, I'd never actually watched Horton all the way through and had no idea what it was about), I decided that this opportunity might be better used to teach the munchkin about the effects of psilocybin. Almost immediately, I further concluded that I am not a psilocybin expert with first hand experience, and there was no way that I would be able to teach her about it in a way that she would remember the stuff when it would be most useful. I stopped myself and looked at it from the level of a munchkin. I took a bite of my shortbread and said, "Dr. Seuss sure makes funny cartoons, huh Munchkin?"
"Yup!"

Rabbi Part II

Well, I've reconsidered. I'm not really sure asking the rabbi for advice is really the best thing to do. See, ever since my mum died, I haven't really been a model Jew. I haven't been going to the synagogue or stuff like that and afterall, the rabbi thinks I'm gay. I'd like to think he thinks that because my mum told him that I was gay way, way back when I was 17, but it probably has more to do with the fact that he saw me leaving a gay bar about ten years ago.

It went down like this: I was trying to find a place to park downtown late on a Sunday night. I found a place, but I didn't have change for the meter. The only place open that was close by was a leather bar. I figured the coat check attendant would be able to make change. I walked in, and held out a fiver and asked for some ones and quarters for the meter. The twink behind the counter said he didn't make change and pointed to a handmade sign next to the coat check window. I said, "Okay, gimme three back and keep the change. Knock yourself out."

I grabbed the change and spun on my heel. I walk back out in the street just as Rabbi Rennebaum is driving past in his black Lincoln. And who should be riding in the passenger seat staring, jaw dropped and pointing vaguely in my direction? Rabbi Weinstein. I'm not really sure what led him to think that I was gay. It might have been the infamous leather jacket that I gave away and is making rounds in Jakarta at this very moment, but I rather think it was the neon marquee flashing PUMPHOUSE. To be honest, if I were in his shoes I probably would have reached the same conclusion as Rabbi Weinstein. I just took a deep breath and defeatedly fed the meter as Domino Dancing blasted into the warm night.

I went over it again and again in my head. Maybe he wasn't pointing at me. Maybe he was pointing out a parking spot for the Lincoln. Come to think of it, maybe he was pointing at Aaron Rosen. He was there sitting at the open windowfront with some friends. I doubt he recognized Aaron though. He wasn't wearing his yarmulke which is the fashion the rabbi normally saw him, but it probably had more to do with the fact that Rosen was shirtless and wearing two stainless steel very painful-looking nipple rings. Clever disguise. He had to be pointing at me, but the rabbi never asked to find out what I was doing there. You don't ask, you don't get a perfectly reasonable explanation. I don't exactly remember what I was doing in that neighbourhood that night, its all been washed over by a series of very unfortunate coincidences.

So not being a regular visitor to the synagogue, I figure Rabbi Weinstein might be loathe to give me advice, and I've been doing fine on my own so I'm not so sure I want to ask him anyway. I might even do Christmas with my dad this year. He's not Jewish, most of my family isn't. Christmas with my dad is quite the surreal experience. Just when you think he can't possibly be more of a pig or jerk or asshole or whatever, he proves you wrong. He called and invited me to Christmas this year, and despite the potential of once again spending Boxing Day on the ward with food poisoning, I accepted. I asked if I could bring someone, hoping in vain that it might temper his behaviour on the day. He said yes, and didn't follow it up with a zillion questions. Super. Only now I've got to find someone who'll accept the invitation. Yumi's gone home, and she's a shy vegetarian anyway. Next choice is Mika. The only problem is that Mika only knows me as "Venti Dark guy with a really sexy Jeep." I'll have to somehow find a way to get her to take me seriously and ease her into the Christmas invitation over the next 18 days. If she says no, there's always Miki (Miki and Mika are not the same person, they have different names. One ends with an i and the other with an a. I know, I have a hard time keeping track too), but I feel guilty about asking her because she's my buddy's roommate. He's had plenty of opportunity, but I'll cut his grass if he won't.

For the record, I have been watching movies but not in the theatre. I saw a really good Cantonese one on the weekend with Sammi Cheung, and she wasn't wearing a fat suit. The TV reception was not too great that night, so I kinda want to rent it and watch it again. It was called Fighting for Love and it was pretty good. Maybe its just that I've been watching crap HK films lately, but this one is worth watching twice.

I'm Thinking About Seeing the Rabbi

In the wise words of my mother, "A witty sense of humour and your tremendous package won't get you anywhere. You need to have a brain too, honey". My mum never knew the internet, but I'm pretty sure that ageless advice doesn't hold true anymore. At the time, I replied "Why not? It's sure getting Bobby places, and he's not even funny".
I recently came across a list I made a few years ago of all the women who have turned me down. I updated the list, and was reminded of a conversation I used to have as a teenager with my mum. Here is the basic content of said conversation:

"I know there's not very many nice Jewish girls here, but you have to stop shtupping the shiksas. Rabbi Weinstein says he's concerned".
"What does he know"?
"He says he's seen you in the street with the shiksas".
"Bobby's shtupping. I'm not shtupping".
"Are you fagle"?
"No Ma! I'm not fagle. I hang out with girls. Doesn't that tell you that I like girls"?
"You're not shtupping"?
"No".
"Why not? Your shmeckle is very nice".
"You just told me to stop with the shtupping".
"I meant that you should stop with the shiksas".
"So it's okay to shtup a Jewish girl"?
"Bubee, I didn't say that. But you have to find one first".
"Ma! Nobody's shtupping"!
"You just said Bobby's shtupping".
"Why are we talking about Bobby? I thought you said the rabbi was worried about me. I have to do algebra".
"Sit. I want you should eat something".
"Bubee, Mr. and Mrs. Gold have a daughter..."
I sputtered over my soup, "Tina?! She's like, ten years old Ma".
"I'm just saying Sweetie, it might be nice to send good wishes at her bat mitzvah".
"Please. Fifteen year old boys do not go to ten year old girls' bat mitzvahs".
"You went to your cousin's bat mitzvah".
"And my sister came to my briss. What's your point"?
"If you want, pick one shiksa and bring her for dinner. We'll introduce her, and if she is interested, maybe she'll convert".
"I think it's a little early for that. Maybe you should wait until girls are older, like eighteen or twenty".
"It'll be too late then, bubee. What about any of the girls at your bar mitzvah"?
"My bar mitzvah? You mean Bobby's bar mitzvah".
"Well you were there".
"I had to bring a gift to my own bar mitzvah! What kind of bar mitzvah is that"?
"Bubee. Bubee. You know how things were. You and Bobby are twins. I could only afford a bar mitzvah for one of you".
"It was Bobby's mitzvah, not mine".
"Okay, what about the girls at Bobby's bar mitzvah"?
"There were two and Bobby shtupped them both".
"Now now bubee. Is that a bad thing? You should bring one for dinner".
"Ummmmmmm, no".
"I'll still love you if you're fagle".
"Ma! I'm not a fagle. I just don't want to bring home one of Bobby's girlfriends".
"I'll find you a nice girl. What about Jennifer Cohen? She's your age".
"She's waiting for a dentist".
"You could be a dentist".
"No Ma. I want to be a speech therapist".
"Sylvia Green"?
"Oncologist".
"Barbara Thomas"?
"Her parents are shmoozing a guy at Columbia who wants to go into neurology".
"Is that anything like a speech therapist"?
"Ma"!
"Rachel Gorstein is going off to Brandeis".
"That's a slight exaggeration, she's seventeen. They haven't accepted her yet".
"You could make Rachel a very happy girl, Bubee. A nice older woman for you".
"Rachel is going to the senior prom with Moe Weissman".
"And after"?
"Okay. I'll ask Rachel after her prom, but I'm kinda young for her".
"What's not to like about you"?

And it really just goes on from there. I never got a chance to ask Rachel Gorstein home for dinner. I guess I just kinda forgot to ask. So here I am so many years later confronted by a long list of rejections and I'm thinking I should seek some advice from Rabbi Weinstein. My mum told him I was fagle when I was seventeen, so now I've got to have this whole conversation (or something similar) with him. Oy!

Shalom

Yumi, Her Vitz and Pho

I have a reputation as a guy who can't get a date. Trust me, the list goes on and on. My friends like to tease me about it, even my relatives like to tease me now and then. I've heard all the lines. I've even come to expect them, and it doesn't even bother me anymore when a woman says she's not interested. Afterall, why would she be interested? What gets me though, is that I can't even score in my dreams. So when a woman responds "In your dreams!", as they so often do, all I can do is shrug and say, "I should be so lucky".
I don't dream very often, but lately I have been having some pretty vivid dreams. I attribute that to the chinese food combo I ordered on Friday and the copious amounts of MSG therein. The menu says Dinner for 2, as if to mock me but seriously its enough for 6 people with normal appetites. So the rare luxury of dreaming has brought two dreams in the last few months in which I get shot down. I don't remember the exact details of the first dream, but I clearly remember it involved me and a friend who had confided that she was not happy with her marriage. She's totally my type, and I even asked her out once. That's how I learned about the husband. In the dream I guess I figured I had a shot because you know, it was MY dream, but no. She told me that she was not going to leave her man. I mentioned this to a few friends and they laughed, like they always do at my being soltero. That's okay, I knew they'd laugh.
The other night I had a dream about Yumi. She picked me up in her car which could only happen in a dream, and then she treated me to some pho, beef pho to be exact, and then to a movie. Right there I knew I was going to score. She bought me dinner, so I have to put out. That's like a rule or something I heard from my sister. We sat in the back row of a drama geared toward middle-aged people, and as the movie progressed the seats we were in transformed into my queen size bed. Yumi and I were holding hands, possibly because I can remember writing air kanji in her hands at the Picasso exhibit. That's about as steamy as it got, and my friends know why. What could be better than holding hands in a movie theatre in a queen size bed? A lot of things, but I blew it. See, I saved the refrigerated ceramic plates that our spring rolls were served on at the pho restaurant and snuck them in the theatre. While Yumi was watching the film, I slipped a refrigerated plate between the mattress and the small of her back which made her jump. She didn't like that, and she stormed out of the theatre. I jumped out of bed and tried to calm her down. She wasn't listening, she just kept screaming in the street about how I always had to ruin a good moment. She jumped into her black Toyota Vitz and drove off leaving me stranded in the middle of a street I didn't recognize. I woke up then. This answers a few questions, but raises quite a few more important ones like: How can a Toyota Vitz appear in my dream when I've never even seen one before? How did I know that we were eating pho? I've never eaten pho, let alone beef pho.

The Geminis

I didn't watch any films this week, well not in the cinema anyway, but I did catch a gem or two. It's been a whirlwind week, and I couldn't even think about watching movies at the weekend. I would have gone to see Walk the Line with Joaquin Phoenix, but its only on limited release in my city playing at only 2 locations neither of which are close to my flat. As a kid, I was never a big fan of Johnny Cash because he was a singer that my mom liked. What kid likes the same music as their mom? Well, my little brother loves Celine Dion like his mother, but that kid is exceptional. I really got into Johnny Cash when I saw him in an episode of Columbo. I never bought any of his albums, but I really liked his cover of Hurt by Nine Inch Nails. That, and listening to people talk about Cash on the radio for several hours made me appreciate his music a lot more.
Yesterday, I got up to start my Saturday at 7:30a.m. I hustled to class expecting a full day, but since we were ahead and half the class had already left by noon, the teacher let us all go. Sweet. That meant that I would be able to run home and print out the review package for my other course and rip across town to campus for the afternoon exam review session. Stupidly, I drove along 4th (my usual route) but on Saturday, 4th is jammed full of hippies and tourists who like to drive slowly and brake for no reason, turning left at uncontrolled intersections. Seriously people, you can buy wicker baskets and pot any day of the week. Please do it on days when I'm not trying to get someplace. I made it to campus with just enough time to get to class and find a seat. My stupid printer didn't print the review package in order, and there were plenty of packages provided at the lecture hall. Dammit.
As I drove home after the review, I decided that I would stop by my local highbrow video rental store and get Classe Tous Risques, but I had to vote first. I sped home to get my voter card that I had stupidly left on the coffee table instead of bringing it with me to campus. I voted. I totally forgot about renting a movie until I turned on the telly and was subjected to the Gemini Awards. As I courageously tried to prevent gagging, esophogeal spasms and accompanying vomit, I turned off the television and ran out. Why? Why bother with the Geminis? Its not like its a real award, but I guess it makes some important people feel better about working in Canadian television. Don't even get me started on the Junos.
With eyes blurred, and the slight saveur of bile in my mouth I raced blindly through the fog to the video store. I blurted out "Have you got Classe Tous Risques?" I guess my French pronunciation was a little too good for the clerk, because he was about to rent me Class Trip. As I caught my breath, I told him that it had Jean-Paul Belmondo in it.
"Spelling?"
Was I having a bad dream? Had I had a car accident, and was this what Hell was like?
"Ecoute, BEL-MON-DO", and then I sputtered, "It's also got Lino Ventura in it". So totally amazed at my own memory, the room began to spin and I fainted. As I came to, the helpful clerk gave me a nice grin, and said "You've been watching the Geminis, haven't you?"
Classe Tous Risques came out in 1960, and was reviewed in the Times this week for a re-release. Some other reader of the New York Times rented it before me, Bastard. I then proceeded to my second choice, Family Guy Presents: Stewie Griffin - The Untold Story. Strike two. All copies have been rented out since the DVD was released. I had the brill idea that I would finally rent the video that I had specially requested some 8 years ago. The store is the place to go for foreign films, and if they don't have it they will get it for you. No shit. I asked for a movie that wasn't obscure in Europe, but they didn't have it and as promised, found a copy which they bought and kept. Only I never bothered to rent it at the time, but I was going to keep my promise and yesterday was the day. I brought it up to the counter and the guy scanned it.
"$7.49"
"... Wha???" DVDs can be rented for $5.89 so why do I have to pay $7.49 for a lousy VHS?
"Yeeeeeeeeah. It's a red dot", the guy answered.
"What does that mean?"
"That means it's a rarity, irreplaceable, one-of-a-kind".
Strangely, now I felt guilty for requesting this movie in the first place. I had been it's whole reason for existing in the shop, punctuated by the fact that it was a rarity, and I had ignored it all these years. I had to rent it now. The all-star cast further mystified me as to its lack of popularity in America. Richard Bohringer, who played the dark, sage Gorodish in Diva, Philippe Noiret star of Les Ripoux, and Thierry Lhermitte, co-star in Les Ripoux. I just found out that Ripoux 3 was made. I have to see it now. Maybe another time. The film was pretty good, but there were some misogynistic undertones that I wasn't very happy with. Lhermitte plays a womanizer who catches his wife having a revenge affair. He goes to his uncle who is a judge. The uncle knows the perfect guy to knock off the wife, a guy that the judge had let off on two cases of murder some years before. That guy is Bohringer, whose character killed his wife and her boyfriend after a few accidents involving his biplane. The judge decides to blackmail Bohringer's character into doing the job. Along the way, the trio stop at a roadside cafeteria for a meal and witness a murder. A woman and her husband are sitting at another table, and as they try to size up the couple, the three men see the wife shoot her husband. My brother-in-law took my sister on a date to the gas station, twice. See what happens when you take your wife to the gas station for a date? They run off and give the wife an escape. Bohringer, a softy ends up scoring with the murderess, and then she goes on her way. Bohringer doesn't want to kill Lhermitte's wife. He doesn't have the same distaste for women that the judge and his nephew have. Eventually, they catch up with the wife, and Bohringer fakes the shooting. Back in France, Lhermitte begins to regret that his wife has been killed. Bohringer gets him to admit that he wants his wife back, and just like that there she is. She had been following the trio after the fake shooting, and waited to surprise her husband. Okay, the ending was a little trite, but that's French cinema.
A few minutes later, I started to watch a Cantonese film: I Want to be a Model, or in English: Supermodel. My local station plays Cantonese or Mandarin films on Saturday and Sunday nights, with a Bollywood vehicle thrown in on Sunday afternoon. It's one of only two stations that I get because I'm too cheap to get cable. I also refuse to get cable on principle, but that's a pretty weak argument. The reason I was watching the Geminis in the first place is because I only get two channels. When I first discovered this channel, I thought they played some really good Cantonese films. Good acting, good shooting and a little bit of a message thrown in for good measure. But lately, the movies have become crap. Last night's movie sounded like it might have a slim chance of being good, and since it starred Kar Yan Lam as the female lead I thought I'd watch it instead of Saturday Night Live. Lam is a hometown girl who traveled half way around the world to be famous. I have to admire that. This is the standard ugly duckling plot, but instead of using a ridiculous fat suit, Lam starts out a little heavier and then really loses about 20 pounds (I'm guessing) to become the belle of the ball. The film is quite campy, and Lam plays a police officer who busts a crooked ring of modeling promoters. After her success, she is hired to protect Hong Kong's top male model, Mandom and his buddies Freedom and Condom. See? Campy. Mandom is determined to win a pageant against his arch-rival, Hong Kong's number two model, Fantasy. As part of the competition, they have to have a walk off. The best catwalk wins, but there's a twist - its a tandem catwalk and as part of the bet, Fantasy gets to pick Mandom's partner. He picks Lam, the dowdy fake model. Mandom puts Lam on a crash course to modeling and after dieting, exercise, and make up lessons, he has created the next supermodel. Okay, I admit it. I fell asleep at this point. I don't know how the movie ends, but I liked the fact that they didn't use any fat suits and the message of being anorexic and such to be beautiful was flipped on the guys. I kind of wish I had stayed up.

Spanish Coffee

It's been a strange week. Yumi left on Tuesday, and a friend called to set up a date for Thursday. This is unusual for me because I'm not a hot guy, unless you count what my sister says and what her friend Maureen says (but Maureen has a thing for geeks anyway). The strangeness continued when my cousin left a message telling me to watch Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. I bought Robert Downey Jr.'s album after he performed on Oprah, but I don't think I'll see the movie, plus Val Kilmer creeps me out.
I was a little surprised that my friend wanted to get together, and I didn't really know how to take it. I figured that I'd just sorta show up and play it by ear. Well, she didn't whisper any Spanish in my ear which turned out to be good because it wasn't really a date afterall, but it was kinda weird. We sat and talked about nothing for 3 hours. She said that she had wanted to get together for coffee (or maybe something stronger), which at first I thought meant espresso. I thought about it some, and realized that she meant getting together for a drink. I had a few things to take care of that day, namely setting up a line of credit at my bank. When I go to the bank, and to the doctor I wear a suit or something similar. This time, I wore light brown corduroy-like trousers and a chamois-coloured faux suede jacket that I affectionately call my slut jacket. I figured hey why not? I'm at that age (see earlier post), and who am I trying to impress anyway? I went to the bank (late, but not my fault), and bing bang boom got a line of credit for $60,000 just like that. No job, cash poor but a lot of equity and investments - Plus it helps when your sister works for the bank because they give you a break on the interest (or so they say...) I met up with my brother who proceeded to touch my slut jacket with his grimy little grease monkey fingers. I seriously considered placing a few snot rockets on his uniform, but noticed that no smudges had been left on the faux suede so I let it go.
On the way home from the bank, I read a letter from the City to my sister, using my best approximation of what a city clerk sounds like. My sister cut me off and asked me why I'm working in accounting, and not doing voice work. Well, there are a lot of unemployed voice artists out there, and I'd rather be an unemployed accountant and not have an agent. Besides, the last person to take career advice from my sister was Des: Des wasn't happy about his career so my sister asked him what he liked to do. He said he liked to eat, and that he was even good at it. My sister encouraged Des to join the professional eating circuit. Off went Des to practice how many hot dogs he could shove down his throat in five minutes etc. and lo, Des was actually really, really good at eating. He placed highly in a few contests and even won one or two. Sadly, Des entered a pie eating contest that summer, and the poor guy succumbed to a previously undiagnosed allergy to blueberries. Death by pie, not a bad way to go I guess but that's why, in a nutshell, I take career advice from my sister with a grain of salt.
I didn't have to rush about nearly as much as I thought I had to. I went to City Hall and did some research for my sister with regard to the letter I got in the mail. The City is seeking approval to open a small scale pharmacy around the corner from my flat. Ding Ding Ding! As a skeptical property owner, this makes me think that some unscrupulous pharmacist is looking to make some quick money by opening a methadone clinic front in my neighbourhood. I didn't really care, but knew that my sister would, so I did my due diligence and checked out the application. I never actually said "methadone clinic", but that was the first thing the project co-ordinator said to me "It's not going to be a methadone clinic". That made things easy, in fact I'm kinda glad there will be a pharmacy close by. The next closest one I can think of is down in Chinatown, which is kinda far to walk if you need medical attention.
On the way to meet my friend, I bumped into one of my former co-workers in the HR department. She said hello and then started asking me all kinds of questions that I sorta felt were none of her business. I do this thing when people ask me questions I don't want to answer. I lie, except I make up a lie so shocking that the person usually stops asking questions. She asked me what kind of job I was doing now. I told her that I got back into gay porn. Owing to what little I knew of her background, I figured this would get her to shut up. It did. We walked for a bit and then she went her way and I went mine.
I went to meet my friend and we ended up going for coffee. She had come all the way downtown to borrow a CD which I thought was a bit excessive, but some people are real music lovers. So much for "something a little stronger", and my slut jacket. I froze my ass off for nothing. We talked about London and the differences that exist here. Some good, some bad. She said that her partner wanted to move back to London, but that she wouldn't go. I guess any city where earning $46,000 a year, and making ends meet is still a struggle probably makes London one of the least attractive places to live. I tried to convince her that Paris is much nicer. She nearly spit her coffee in my face. She said she'd rather live in dirty old London than dirty old Paris. I'd live in dirty old Paris any day. We talked and talked and talked and talked. I ran out of coffee and offered to buy her a Chantico because she said that there is no way that Chantico is anything close to chocolate con leche. I figured she was wrong and decided to prove it. Chantico is a lot closer than she expected, and said that we needed churros. I told her that I don't do churros. We talked some more, and I asked if she was hungry. She said that the Chantico had filled her up. Okay, I admit it, I didn't understand that. I was waiting for the cafe to kick us out, but it must have been a 24-hour Starbucks or something because the baristas just kept offering us free samples. I was running out of things to say and had given up any hope of watching Survivor but if we weren't going to have dinner together, I had to bail. I figured it was about 10:00 because I don't have a watch, and knowing that she had a long trip ahead of her, I told her that I had to get home. It turned out to be only 9:00 so I was able to salvage the last 40 minutes of The Apprentice. All in all, the day wasn't totally uneventful.

History Will Repeat Itself (even if I don't want it to)

I didn't go to any movies this week. It's turned out to be the worst way to forget my ex, even though I'd rather not. Instead, my seester called me and invited me to the Picasso exhibit in town. Dammit. The last time I went to the VAG, I saw the Matisse show with my ex-girlfriend. For some reason, people like to talk about Matisse and Picasso in the same breath. I guess they were kinda like contemporaries, or they lived in the same area of France or something.
My friend Yumi is going back to Japan in a few days, and she asked me to brunch on Sunday. Since my sister abandoned the plan for a Saturday trip to the gallery, we decided on Sunday. Instead we went to visit my friendly neighborhood realtor who helped me buy my flat and we dropped off some papers for the deal on my sister's new place. The place he was showing was a townhouse that is part of a tower complex. The townhouses are totally hidden from the street and I was amazed to see them there. The whole place reminded me of the London flat in The Constant Gardener. I asked my realtor how often these places come on the market and how much the owners were asking. He said they come available quite regularly and the owners wanted upwards of $400K. Believe me, that is totally reasonable in my town.
We decided to do the gallery on Sunday. I darted around trying to re-schedule brunch and eventually convinced Yumi that if she wanted to see me one last time that she would have to meet me at 10:00a.m. It would have been so much easier if she had slept over. To make it up to her, and since she plans to travel to Spain one day with her mum, I asked her to come to the art gallery with us and learn about a Spanish git. Yumi hardly touched her omelette at brunch, and I started to get a little pissed but then I remembered she was treating me. I had arrived at the restaurant 40 minutes early to guarantee that we had a table. It was the only way we were going to crunch everything into the day. We had to be done everything by 2:00. I'm very organized and motivated when I want to be, and I didn't even need a Red Bull this time. I got a free parking spot and everything was peachy. The restaurant was practically empty when I got there but it filled up in less than 10 minutes. We received extremely prompt service and left.
I love the way Yumi has to climb into my Jeep. Come on, its stock but she still finds it necessary to grip the sport bar and use the side step. I can't really blame her, she had on some really nice boots today that made her butt look really good. She was sick of wearing trainers in the wet weather.
We drove downtown and parked near the gallery. We got there before my sister and her husband. Yumi is really shy and nearly backed out when I told her that she was going to meet my sister. She said she didn't want to bother her and her husband. WTF? The last girl I introduced to my family happens to be the same person who introduced me to Yumi. In her case, I was hoping she would come to my sister's wedding. She gave my sister a gift, but wouldn't come to the wedding. She said she had nothing to wear, but I think it was a fake excuse. It's probably a good thing though because she would have freaked when we were pulled over at a roadblock. The cops sent us on our way, but I can imagine that sort of thing would be freaky for my friend.
At the gallery, Yumi was trying not to fall asleep during the guided tour, but it was pretty good all in all. My sister and her husband left after the tour because he wanted some baby-making time and she had to work later in the afternoon. They should have stayed at the gallery. On the third floor in a different show, there is an installation of photos in a small room where the photos are on the ceiling and you have to lie down on a mattress to see them. I got down and nearly fell asleep myself. I tried to convince Yumi to join me, but she doesn't have sex in public. Prude? Maybe.
Yumi wanted to see Emily Carr's stuff so we went to the top floor, and another trigger hit me. I had visited Emily Carr's home in Victoria with my ex-girlfriend. This stuff just happens, six degrees I guess. Anyway, that didn't upset me. I mentioned to Yumi that I had seen the Andy Warhol exhibit many years ago, and the thing I remember the most is watching a video of Iggy Pop draw a portrait with his butt. His medium was crayon on paper, I guess I watched it because it wasn't immediately apparent that Iggy was drawing, nor that it was Iggy drawing, nor what exactly it had to do with Andy Warhol. I bumped into one of my old friends there. She was watching the video. I bump into her every couple of years. The last time was at church last Christmas. She's doing a thesis in Divinity and plans to be an Anglican priest (priestess?). I'm glad for her, I hope she does it. It's nice to bump into people now and then and see that they are doing something meaningful with their lives. Yumi had no idea who Warhol was, so I dragged her into the gift shop and rifled through his books looking for soup cans. All I could find were pictures of Marilyn Monroe and Mick Jagger.
It was getting close to 3:00 so we went for coffee at a place I had never heard of before, but Yumi knew about it. One thing I don't understand about Yumi is her musical knowledge. She is the same age as I, but she doesn't recognize songs like When Doves Cry by Prince, or really any songs from the 80s. I asked her why she didn't know pop music, she said that she HATED English. I asked her if she knew Alyssa Milano's "Kimi wa Sunshine Boy", a Japanese language chart topper from the mid-80s. She said no. I started to think that Yumi had never heard the radio before, but then Frankie came on and she grinned and pointed to the ceiling. "I know this song", she said. Jokingly I asked, "So you go to gay bars a lot, then?" She said she had never been to a gay bar. Likely story, even I've been to a gay bar (once) -- for the music. Apparently, Relax is a song used in Japanese TV ads. I shudder to think for what. I felt a duty to tell her the story of Holly Johnson and the impact he and his colleagues had on the London music scene in the 80s, but I kept it short. Yumi wasn't interested.
The clock was closing in on four, so Yumi and I went back to the Jeep, paid a sweet $4 for 5 hours of parking. Yumi told me that parking is $6 an hour in Tokyo, but its only $6 a day for earlybirds here. I drove her to her friend's place and only realized it when it was too late really: This was the last time I was going to see Yumi for a long time. I got a little sad, so I went grocery shopping and got a party-size bucket of flan. Actually it was a large format bag of white corn Tostitos. I polished them off in quick order before I knew it, and tried to move on. I guess it was good really. She was only supposed to be here for 2 weeks, but she changed her plans and ended up staying 2 and a half months. I offered to drive her to the airport, but I might have to work that day so today was it. I'm eager to take a vacation some time soon, and now I have a good reason to go to Japan.

The Hot, Older Woman

It’s not working. It’s not working. It’s not working. Last week, I went to watch The Weather Man in an effort to get my ex-girlfriend off my mind. Thanks to the all the archery, it didn’t happen. It was a toss-up between that film and Prime. Prime sold out so I saw the other one. This week, I saw Prime and I made sure that I got to the theatre nice and early. Well, now I’ve got several girlfriends on the brain, and perhaps film is not the best way to forget.
The day started like any other Saturday: I scrambled out of bed at 7:45 so that I could have a nice hot shower before going to my all-day class. I got to class about 5 minutes late. I left the flat at 8:55 and got to class after 9:00, but still before the teacher. I don’t see what the big rush is; my class is a week ahead of schedule.
I sat and talked with a friend from Spain. She mentioned chocolate con leche. It’s like hot chocolate, but thicker and richer. I asked her if it was like Starbucks’ Chantico. She had never heard of it so I felt a duty to educate her. After showing her what it was, and explaining how they make it, she said it’s not the same. Chocolate con leche is only sweet if you dump sugar in it she said. Rosa is Basque, but she speaks Spanish like a real madrideña. Did I mention that I have a thing for certain accents? She could whisper “The prices of sarsaparilla in Barcelona are very low at this moment. It is a hot day, so buy several on the way home” in Spanish in my ear once or maybe twice and my toes would curl.
The class went pretty leisurely until lunch. The entire class went back to the Japanese restaurant. I didn’t like it so much this time. I ordered something different and broke my cardinal rule. Never order combos. These are usually the low cost, high margin items that restaurants depend on to survive, and usually involve more than 1 thing. I ordered it because one of my classmates ordered it last week and she couldn’t finish it. It seemed like a large meal at the time. Except when I ordered it, I didn’t get miso soup and the waitress forgot to give me a cup for tea. The restaurant itself was freezing, and I have a slight problem maintaining body temperature. Always have, and probably always will. I shivered the whole time, and had to listen to the usual conversation about what is the best accounting software to use, or what is the best course to take if I want to learn certain software – blah blah. I noticed my classmate Misako sitting silently across the table from me so I asked her about my second favourite Japanese dish. She had not had it lately, but as soon as we mentioned food, the teacher changed the conversation. She is always interested in trying new types of food. She asked what it was, and my initial explanation of kani miso wasn’t good enough because when I told her that kani miso tastes like liver, she looked at me kind of funny and said, “I’ve never heard of crab meat that tastes like liver”. She didn’t get it. She asked how it is prepared at the restaurant I go to. I couldn’t remember, and couldn’t give a good description of what it is because we were at the dinner table. Jeez, even when I go to the restaurant the waitresses are reluctant to tell me exactly what it is. I found out on my own what it is, but just can’t bring myself to say it at the table. No worries, Misako explained. Kani miso is crab offal. All that stuff inside the top shell that we normally throw out. Some Japanese people eat it, and I have to say that it tastes quite pleasant. If westerners can eat goose liver or veal thymus, then I don’t see anything wrong with eating crab offal, but apparently some people do. I’ve eaten all three, and have to say that they are all very nice. Trigger. Shit. So we drove to and from the restaurant because it was raining and cold outside. My friend Rosannah drove us in her car. She has so many trinkets in her car; I’m surprised she can still fit 5 people in there. She has two trinkets on her rearview mirror, two on her dashboard (one of which spins), and little stuffed puppies jammed across the ledge behind the rear seats looking out the back window. She had a stuffed dog in the backseat which had some funky stuffing in it. I liked it. She also had a pillow in the backseat. I asked her if she sleeps in her car sometimes. I shouldn’t have asked because she could have answered something about comfortable car sex and I didn’t need to hear that.
After class, I tried to make an appointment to get my hair cut. Nobody was answering the phone, so I went out in the cold and rain and walked down to the shop. That’s how badly I wanted to get my hair cut. I went inside and Tony was the only one there. He said that my stylist went to a wedding. Hmm. I suppose I can live with a shaggy do for a few more days, so I’ll go and see Naomi on Monday. I went down to Tinseltown to see what was playing. Shopgirl was the only one that interested me, but I don’t know if I want to watch a Jason Schwartzman movie. I’ve heard that Shopgirl is a lot like Rushmore, and that one kind of upset me, I don’t know why. The Asian Film Festival was also on at Tinseltown, but I passed on the Saturday shows. I went home and did some homework, and then made my way to the Paramount nice and early. I stopped at a Starbucks and got a grande Yukon, to warm me up and cursed when I discovered that Paramount has Seattle’s Best available. I could have had coffee AT the cinema. Coffee is also near the bottom of my list of permissible cinema fare, along with tacos.
I didn’t want to stand in line, so I went straight to the debit machines. This is embarrassing for me. I work with cash, credit and debit cards every damn day, but I can’t manage to use a touch screen interface to buy a ticket. I pick up my Yukon, my brolly and find the nearest employee to help me out. There is actually a person stationed near the debit machines to help with any questions. I’m not sure what prompted the girl to ask me, but the first question out of her mouth was “Is that an American debit card”? Here’s why I am different than most people. I thought, “Sure, why not? If she thinks I’m a tourist, I’ll act like one”. I informed her that no, the card was a local bank card as was clearly visible on the face, so she took me to the next open machine and walked me through. I swear that next time; I’ll be able to do it myself. It’s a damn debit machine. Why does someone have to actually touch the debit card option in order to proceed? There shouldn’t even be an option. Logically, debit card should be the de facto method of payment on a debit machine, no?
Off I go with my stuff with about 25 minutes to spare. I don’t understand the pricing of external vendors in the theatre. I understand that with a captured audience, vendors could get away with charging maybe 10% more than at their other locations. It didn’t seem logical to me that if at the local fast food restaurant on Main St. a burger costs say, $3.89, that the same burger should cost $5.05 at the theatre. Somebody was being gouged. I’m willing to let that slide in the name of supply and demand, but what made me scoff incredulously was that the burger combo was more than twice the cost of just a burger. While there are many competing views to product costing, general wisdom shows that a burger combo should cost less than two burgers. If the burger costs $5.05, then the burger combo would cost $5.05 + fries + drink. The labour cost for the fries and drink are sunk, so the incremental costs should only be the material. The drink (syrup and water and carbonation) costs tops 30 cents. Go ahead and add 15 cents to make the customer feel like they’re being charitable. That brings the total up to $5.50. I don’t know about anybody else, but I’ve never had to buy a potato for $4.50+, but that’s what they were charging. Burger, drink and fries all for upwards of $10.00. I thought that maybe it was that particular vendor only. I strolled around and noticed that the other two fast food outlets were using the same pricing strategies, and it should be worth noting that none of the three offered a full menu. We expect the in-house candy counters to gouge us, so I felt much better about forking over $4.50 for a box of Milk Duds. It’s not every day that one gets to eat Milk Duds, well at least not me. The first time I had Milk Duds was on a trip to the Point Defiance Zoo. My mum belonged to a group that split the cost of a coach with a group of dwarves and we all went to the zoo. My mum told me and my brother to not say anything mean or stupid, so we didn’t because we knew that when we were in a foreign country we really had to listen to her. But that didn’t stop the other group from saying nasty things to me and my brother. I didn’t care, they had reason to be bitter and I had my Milk Duds. I don’t seem to remember any other kids on this trip, maybe one or two, but that was a really cool zoo. I’m not even sure if it was Point Defiance Zoo, but it was in Washington someplace other than Seattle and that’s the only zoo I can think of.
With all the time to spare, I sat down at a table and started to enjoy my Milk Duds. I noticed scads of people filing into the theatre well early so I thought I better hop to it. I walked in to the theatre and the place was already 85% full. Crap. I had to find the first seat I could. I ended up sitting in the second row up from the landing. There was an empty seat between me and the next person, and so I waited. I waited for the inevitable moment that someone comes along and asks me to move because I am solo and they are a pair. Fully prepared to direct them to the pit, the seats that are so close to the screen that one’s neck must recline approximately 135 degrees to see the film, I waited.
Eventually, a really cute girl who has milled around the theatre for about 10 minutes approached me. Bitch. Okay, I speak many languages and I reserve the right to slide in and out of them as often as I see fit, but that doesn’t mean someone else can approach me and use broken English so that I’ll take pity on them. She spoke very quickly as though she had practiced what she wanted to say and needed to say it. She asked me to move down “because you are one, and we are two so that me and my friend can sit together”. There was only one other seat. If I move over one seat, that still leaves only one seat, so how are they going to sit together? I asked her, or at least I tried to ask, “Where is the other person going to sit?” but clearly unfamiliar with the interrogative mode in English, she cut me off after “Where is the other person…” with another rushed response. “She is right here”, pointing behind her shoulder. Apparently now I am also blind. The trailers were playing and I didn’t have time for an ESL lesson so I just said “Whatever” and moved ONE SEAT OVER. There was still one seat lacking. She was very polite and thankful so I didn’t get too pissed. It’s just that I had to move my Yukon, my Milk Duds and my brolly, and it took her 10 minutes to ask in the first place. Her friend, also cute, sat in front of us in another single seat, and then got up and left. WTF? I noticed a perfect solution and then realized that perhaps that’s what the girl had meant to ask in the first place. Her use of the preposition “down” in the context she used made me think that she wanted me to move one seat “over”. Perhaps it would have been better for her to ask me to move “one seat below”. While her friend was away, I leaned over to the girl and asked her in perfect Mandarin, “Do you want your friend to sit here”? All of a sudden she’s speaking perfect English, so I change back to English. Why did she use broken English in the first place? Damn. She duped me. I got up and moved one ROW down, and as usual she was very polite and thankful. Regarding the rest of the audience, there was quite a mix. It was a date movie, a lot of couples in their mid to late 30s, some older in their 40s and 50s, and actually quite a lot of teenagers. There were even a few kids: The film was PG-13.
Like I said, it’s not working. It’s not working because in the second trailer, a forty-foot high reminder of my ex-girlfriend appeared on the screen. A lot of my friends don’t understand when I say that Jennifer Aniston looks like my ex-girlfriend, whom they all know to be Japanese. I guess I should say that Aniston reminds me of my ex. They don’t look alike as if they were twins, but they have the same chin and the same twinkling eyes when they smile. That’s enough for a trigger. Anyway, the first trailer was for a movie starring Queen Latifah, which looks like it might be worth an afternoon, and the second trailer was for the movie with Aniston, Mark Ruffalo, Kevin Costner and several others. It’s a retelling of The Graduate called Rumor Has It. It sounds like it might be good to see. There was a trailer for The Family Stone, which I’ve written about before but which also stars Luke Wilson. If I see the film, I will go to see it for Luke Wilson. Mathew Broderick and Nathan Lane are back in the cinematic adaptation of their Broadway performance of The Producers. Wil Ferrell also stars in the film, along with Uma Thurman who in a 3 minute snippet, made me have a whole new appreciation for garters. I’m not really a big fan of Uma, but Prime changed all that.
As the film opens with a really easy instrumental, I miss the credits because I’m listening too hard to the music to figure out if it was bossa nova. It turned out not to be, but I was able to catch the name Madhur Jaffrey, and then… John Abraham. Just as I was thinking that I’d hit the double jackpot, I looked again. It was not John Abraham, it was Jon Abrahams. Two Bollywood superstars getting near top billing in a Hollywood film? Too good to be true. I have a confession to make – I love Bollywood. Formulaic love stories aside, the real talent lies in the filmi itself. Spontaneous dance numbers? Can’t get enough. Playback singers who are more talented than the actors themselves? Not uncommon. Asha Bhosle? Love her, but I can’t find her albums. Yuge gaps in the sometimes farcical plot? The filmi is usually three hours long to begin with – imagine if they tried to fill in the holes. What I really like is the use of colour in a lot of the filmis. Pristine whites and vibrant reds, yellows, blues, pinks, greens and even browns (my second-favourite colour after green) really catch my eye. The colours, the music, and the babes. The heroines are usually real babes. Sometimes not, but Preity Zinta can’t be in every film can she? I find the Hindi ones easiest to watch, but once in a while I’ll catch one in Bengali, or another language.
Madhur Jaffrey plays the therapist of therapists. The aforementioned Jon Abrahams, plays the best friend of the male lead in the film, and despite my disappointment, makes me wonder why the film isn’t about him. We all have a friend like him. If we don’t, we are the friend. He is the friend who causes a lot of trouble for you, but is always there when you need him. For example, his character Maurice has a fetish for cream pies – or more precisely throwing cream pies in the faces of women who won’t give him a second date. Meryl Streep is the female co-lead and plays a therapist whose son is having a relationship with one of her clients. The client is Rafi Gardet, played by Uma Thurman. Now, I haven’t seen too many movies with Uma Thurman in them, but I never understood why people think she is gorgeous. Well, now I am one of those people. She is totally gorgeous in this film. Rafi’s boyfriend David is played by Bryan Greenberg, and I have a strong suspicion that he is the reason so many teen-aged girls came to watch the movie. I’d have to say that I can think of a few of my female friends who would like to share a bottle of manischewitz with Dave. The only thing I couldn’t believe about his character was the amount of chest hair he had. He plays a 23 year old, but I had more chest hair than that when I was 17. So part of the movie deals with Dave’s mum’s neuroses about things like manischewitz. His mother must serve the wine chilled, which is apparently funny. I don’t know about that. I used to know a very rich old man who swore by putting a few ice cubes in his red wine. He said ice made red wine taste better because it mimicked cellar temperature. He was a little sketchy overall, but that was one of the things I figured must be true. Why would he make that up? Besides, my cocktail book has several recipes for summer coolers, all which involve red wine and ice cubes. When Lisa realizes that her client is sleeping with Dave, she starts to freak out and does a little dance groping her necklace and smoothing down her front which totally reminds me of one of my aunts. I pity the day she discovers that her son is dating older women. I was expecting quite a few triggers in this film, and actually got more than I bargained for. During one of Rafi’s therapy sessions, she tells her counselor that Dave has a beautiful penis and that she would like to knit it a hat. Funniest line of the whole movie. I’ve been told that I have a beautiful penis, but nobody ever offered to knit it a hat. This film is not based on my life, nobody would pay to see that film, but it has a lot of parallels with what I was doing when I was young. Dave is a frustrated artist. I was a frustrated artist. Dave’s mum freaks out about his relationship with Rafi, but at least she didn’t deny his existence after finding out. I watched the film feeling totally bad about all the stuff Dave put his mum through. My mum probably went through at least half that stuff, and it probably didn’t do her health any good. Dave and his girlfriend spend a weekend in the Hamptons with three gay guys. I can’t say I’ve ever been to the Hamptons or spent the weekend with three gay guys, but the whole Rafi-bashing incident is something I’ve had to witness. The differences in the lives led by Dave and Rafi cause some tension, and the couple eventually break up. Dave is devastated, but his mother is relieved. Not happy, but relieved. Dave sleeps with an acquaintance of Rafi’s, whom he met at a photo shoot. The shoot totally took me back. A few years ago, I used to work nights from Sunday to Thursday and the dinner break on Sunday was particularly difficult. There was nothing open nearby, so I used to go down to a predominantly gay area of my city which is always bustling to find a restaurant there. I liked to try different places each week, and I chose to go to a place that is shut now, but I walked in the front door with a bit of stubble on my face wearing a black leather. I was greeted at the door by an older fellow looking even rattier than I was who asked in a very gay, unnecessarily loud voice, “Staaafff???” How rudely presumptuous of him. Miffed, I said, “No. Paying customer” to which he said “Sorry, it’s a private function tonight”. I turned and walked out the door, and as I walked past the front window I noticed that the place was full of drag queens. One of them gave me a nice smile. Too bad. I think it would have been a real kick to hang out with a bunch of queens for an hour or so. That black leather is in Indonesia someplace now. Good times, good times. In the movie, Dave experiences an equally awkward moment. He goes to the photo shoot in search of Rafi, and asks several people. He interrupts a small group and asks for her. A guy with shoulder length hair asks Dave if he is the make-up guy. Dave says no, and asks the other guy if he is the hair dresser. This gets Rafi in a bit of trouble because the dude is her boss. Dave explains that he has nowhere to live and has no money. Rafi decides to let Dave move in.
Things progress and the age difference starts to become apparent. My sister had a boyfriend once who was much younger than her, or at least he acted that way. He used to call her at work and nag her to come pick him up from school and drive him home where they could hang out. Needless to say, he didn’t last very long. In Rafi’s case, Dave takes his time looking for a job, spends more time in Rafi’s apartment than she would like playing Nintendo. She had been warned, one of her friends told her that if she liked sex, she better not buy Dave a Nintendo system. That is absolutely, totally true. Ask one of my ex-girlfriends. Her sex life went down the toilet once I started playing Nintendo. Dave and Rafi eventually have a fight because Rafi catches Dave trying to lie to her. She kicks him out, which is when he gets depressed and Maurice takes him to a party where he hooks up with Rafi’s acquaintance. Rafi finds out, and she gets totally upset. Strange, she was the one who said they should break up and see other people. But guys never learn. I never did. When one of my ex-girlfriends told me that she wanted to see other people I said okay, thinking it was okay for me to see other girls. I was surprised to learn a few weeks later that I had been mistaken. My brother called me and told me that my girlfriend was looking for me and she wasn’t happy. I met up with her and she told me flat out that she never meant for me to see other people. WTF?? That’s how I learned that seeing other people means only the person suggesting it is allowed to see other people.
At some point, Dave and Rafi get back together to make one last go at it, and he tells her that he wants to get her pregnant like she’s been wanting. She realizes in a big way that she can’t do it. Dave says something like, “It’s okay baby, yes you can” but Rafi says no way. She loves him too much and has to let him go. The trigger on that one was so strong, I couldn’t even see straight. My first major girlfriend broke up with me for the same reason. She didn’t tell me at the time, but years later after she was married and raising an infant at a time when she felt she could be honest with me, she said that she broke up with me because she loved me too much and didn’t want to ruin my life. There was no baby-making involved with us, but it was very much like the break up between Dave and Rafi. Of course, I didn’t know it at the time so when my ex came to mother’s funeral a few months later, I totally felt it was appropriate to ask her certain questions which didn’t exactly make her feel good. To her credit, she handled my garbage really well and didn’t let me make a scene. In the film, Dave and Rafi end up going their separate ways and a year later, or so we’re meant to believe, a chance meeting finds them in the same restaurant. There is no scene, instead it’s a moment where each lets the other know that they are doing alright… and life goes on. The doomed relationship is made to look as though it will last with the help of additional music by John Coltrane, Rufus Wainwright, and others. Without the music, I’m sure the audience would have dismissed the relationship as unworkable from the early stages.
All through the film, the cute Asian girls sitting behind me giggled and giggled. Sometimes they even giggled before the humour happened. Anyway, the point is I liked their giggling and fancied my chances with the one I had spoken to earlier. Yeah, I know. I picked up my brolly and left the theatre thinking they were right behind me, but they weren’t. So much for a chance to chat her up. After the grande Yukon, I was busting so like any other caffeine addict; I reasoned that I would return to the Starbucks and use the toilet. To show my patronage, I would then buy another coffee. At this rate, cigarettes would be cheaper. Anyway, on the walk back to the Starbucks I happened upon a woman passing who announced to a proprietor that she was going to grab a coffee and then go to work. I thought “Huh”? She was dressed in a business suit and stilettos. I reckoned that she was a call girl. As my aunt would say, “But Dax, how do you know she was a prostitute? Maybe she really was going to work”. Well, for one she was going to work, but the only places around to work were bars and I’ve never seen any bar waitresses who wear stilettos. And two, her skirt was see-through. She was a brunette, and she was totally gorgeous. Her pleasant attitude reminded me of one of my ex-girlfriends, except that she didn’t have red hair, no freckles and no braces. Is it just me, or is it totally fucked up to see a gorgeous woman and all you can think about is sewing a lining into her skirt? As it happened, the Starbucks loo was out of order, so I walked home with a gutful of Milk Duds trying to dodge drunken football fans. Saskatchewan was in town, and they have the most hardcore fans. I’m used to guys trying to touch me or grab my junk, but every once in a while I’m caught off guard. I almost got into it with one guy, but I only had one arm free and he was just trying to pat me on the back, plus he had two buddies with him and was drunk, so drunk in fact that he didn’t even realize that I wasn’t his buddy. CFL fans, gotta love’em.