I’m having a rough day today. I can still hear that evil giggling from the fourth frozen margarita last night. Oh yes, she knew she’d snuck past my three drink limit. Her cold heart probably cracked with glee as she went down, knowing she’d spend the entire next day f***ing me over.
Before she ruined the weekend, I watched a lot of moving pictures:
Moulin Rouge! (well, pieces of it anyway…),
Idlewild, Miami Vice, and an old drama with Irene Dunne,
If I Were Free (1933). I even took in two episodes of the worst television series I think I’ve ever laid eyes upon,
Dante’s Cove.
My favorite piece of the holiday’s weekend viewing was Pedro Almodovar’s Oscar winner
All About My Mother. Nothing could mute the delight it gave; not the knowledge that Pedro would surpass it just three years later with
Talk To Her, not that weirdly jumpy and protacted ending which I’ve always been puzzled by, not the theater filled with a particularly unruly elderly crowd (seriously it was like a geriatric brawl in there –total infighting about something or other), not
the theater itself -- easily among the worst in Manhattan.
No, the only thing that managed to kill its lingering greatmovie buzz was that fourth ice queen. I couldn’t resist her. She was all gussied up with her trademark salt collar. Her friends had seemed so innocent and gone down so smoothly. She tasted great too, it’s true. But oh her poisonous heart.
