Thursday, May 26, 2005

Il y a un probleme avec mon ordinateur

Just finished watching Layer Cake, the recent UK release starring Daniel Craig. It's Goodfellas with more charm (and less Joe Pesci). I highly recommend it: failing to do so would be a burden on my conscience.

Hell, I think it did Scorsese better than Scorsese.


When Swiss Alps couldn't get ahold of (convince?) his booty calls for a bit of midday canoodling, he rung me up to gratify his mind. He took me to a great, organic-serving bistro hidden within this quaint, francophone community to discuss the perils of Big Pharma, identity-enforced subjugation, and other bourgeois topics only out-of-work students have time to examine and speak ill of.

We continued debating as we mucked about the park throwing styrofoam airplanes, cheerfully mocking pop culture platitudes, and eventually settling at a bar with a massive backyard garden when we met up with Maussie's ex-roommate, Bloody Toe, a freelance painter.

That evening, the three of us dropped by a McDonald's (with a rustic, brick-exposed interior decorated with faux, Deco-era art -- all the better to divert hipster attention away from those golden arches, eh?). When we finished ordering, Bloody Toe warned us this outing will lead to the walk of shame. I felt guilty for entering already. You know about the "walk of shame," don't you? It typically describes the long journey home after realizing you've woken up next to your friend's, middle-aged brother with the lazy eye whom you don't remember being burly and naked the night before ("Damnit, I knew the left one was up to something!"). However, in this case, it refers to the period in which you plan to enter your plant-populated pad (still shit-faced at 3 a.m.), but your over-zealous vegetarian friends catch you trying to sneak in with that oily, translucent bag of beef, buns and butter and make a mental note of never sharing their Wendy's tofurkey salad with you ever again. Let me explain: Since enrolling in university last September, everything I've been consuming either contains pronounceable ingredients ("No artificial preservatives!") or has a tendency to actually rot when left exposed ("On sale!"). I haven't held a seared patty (dripping in grease that doubles as its own dipping sauce) between my hands in ages. It's not that I necessarily miss being a statistic from Fast Food Nation, but being a health nut hinders my ability to get over the health nut I've been, you know, writing obsessively about for months.

Anyway. When we finally left the Evil Establishment ("Hear, hear!"), I caught sight of a fleet of crotch rockets parked alongside the sidewalk with an equal number of leather-clad guidos wandering near and a thought came to me: Would global auto emissions drop significantly if men would only learn to accept their size?


The feature presentation in today's film class was Claire Denis's 1988 debut, "Chocolat." Just as I voiced my opinion about the cinematographic implications and representations of race, class, and gender in the movie (Cameroon, circa 1950s) and provoked budding group interest in the subject, the PC professor put an end to it, blaming it on "time."

Golly. A whole 15-minutes.

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