NetFlix Has Me...

In an official act of singlehood, I finally signed up for a NetFlix account. I know I'm very, very late to the party. Technically, I had one when I was married - but it was really my ex-wife's account. I had little input on the movies arriving in those neat red envelopes.

Now, though, I'm in total control. Already my queue has hit triple digits, filled with movies I've missed the last couple of years, classics I've neglected to see, and favorites I want to see again(but for some reason do not own).

My first arrivals came Saturday: 3:10 to Yuma, Tenacious D in The Pick of Destiny, and Season One, Disc One of LOST. Yes, LOST. I never boarded the LOST train(or in this case, plane) when it first aired, but now I'm all aboard. Those first four episodes hooked me.

NetFlix should definitely help with my goal of staying single the entire summer, keeping me locked away in my apartment, basking in the glow of the TV while manipulating my queue and rating movies in hopes of getting some good suggestions from the NetFlix robots. I already can't wait for the rest of the first season of LOST(though I'm told after this, it gets really weird until picking up again in the fourth season).

I also watched American Psycho for the first time over the weekend, and I have to say, now I understand why some people just couldn't see Christian Bale as Batman. After all, Patrick Bateman is pure evil. Not exactly superhero material. Like Bruce Wayne, though, Bateman is a mentally disturbed member of the upper class, alienated from everything around him. Though he doesn't imagine demonic cat-eating ATMs or daydream about dismembering hookers with chainsaws, Wayne is still very unhinged. And for some reason, I can imagine Wayne going on at length about his favorite artists and albums(though I doubt Huey Lewis and the News is in big rotation in the Batmobile; more likely he rocks out to something dark and elegant - like Led Zeppelin¹).

¹He definitely does NOT listen to anything Goth.

I Wish Mr. Brooks Would Visit Mr. Happy Fun

That was a two day weekend, right? It felt like three. Come Sunday, it felt like I had been away from work for a long time. I guess that means I had a good weekend. It didn't start out good, it started out with over-priced, over-cooked fillet mignon.

My girlfriend and I had dinner in Little Italy Friday night. We stopped at the first place that served bread and appeared air conditioned. After being seated, the waiter asked us if we needed to see the wine list. I said no, since I wasn't in the mood and my girlfriend doesn't drink...usually. Looking down at the menu, I didn't see his reaction, but my girlfriend said he seemed pissed. Great, it's going to be one of those nights, I thought.

Don't get me wrong, I mean, I get it. Wine, appetizers - they all add up, which to a waiter usually means a bigger tip. Don't be visibly pissed though. It's not my duty to order over-priced wine. Okay, mister waiter? No hard feelings, right?

So, naturally, we received no bread. Other tables, that were seated after us? Oh they got bread. I, however, had to ask for it. So that's how it is, mister waiter? Mister happy fun? Got it.

My fillet mignon -- which I had never actually had before, I just enjoyed saying fillet mignon -- was decent. I may be a complete philistine, but I prefer steaks at Outback to what this restaurant was serving. And whoever fixed my girlfriend's spaghettia alla carbonara went nuts with the garlic and salt, pushing the limits of edible. We will not be going back there, despite the ringing endorsement from Time Out, circa 1999, quoted on their website.

After having missed one showing of "Mr. Brooks" downtown, we opted for a late showing at the 86th street Loews. The show was at 12:15, and they let us in the theater at...12:15. We waited in a, albeit short, line for about a half hour. For the first twenty minutes of that wait, the line was three people deep: me, my girlfriend, and a baseball-cap wearing, sweaty loner. "Mr. Brooks" was surprisingly good; Costner and Hurt had moments together that were very creepy. They should patent that joint laughter act and go on the road, creeping people out. Dane Cook was serviceable, and Demi Moore can now say she owns the most realistic portrayal of a millionaire cop ever filmed. Wil Smith in Bad Boys has nothing on her. So, a good ending that salvaged an otherwise horrible Friday night.

Saturday, things were much better. We went to Ooki, a Sushi/Japanese restaurant on the Upper East Side. Easily the best Japanese place I've been to in New York. The service was friendly and quick. The atmosphere was chill; the open-air dining room felt fantastic on a warm summer night. The drinks, especially the plum wine, were delicious. Ooki earns special praise for pacing the salads, appetizers, and entrees so we never felt rushed or neglected. The duck spring rolls, the shrimp tempura, and the best chicken teriyaki I've ever had make Ooki my new favorite dining spot. My girlfriend, not one to hand out praise, said the sushi was the best she'd ever had.

We went to see "Knocked Up", which -- thought not has laugh out loud hilarious as "The 40 Year-Old Virgin" -- was still hilarious and heartfelt. If you haven't seen it yet, well, too bad. People applauded at the end of the film, though these days I find that happening a lot more than I remember it. I mean, people applauded at the end of the third Pirates movie as well. And while, yes, I can appreciate some of the non-blockbuster sequences Verbinski sneaked into the movie -- the sand crabs, multiple Jack Sparrows were very surreal and effective -- I don't think the overloaded, under-plotted film deserved applause. A thoughtful "hmmm"? Sure.

Sunday was spent moving the rest of my stuff over to my new apartment, shopping, and then finally, relaxing.

Which is good, because it looks to be a long week.

What Do You Call A Female Donkey?

Indeed, what do you call a female donkey? This question is vexing me 3:30 on a Monday morning. Outside the last of the New Jersey turnpike speeds by as the Peter Pan bus I'm in accelerates out of a tollbooth. One of the tiny TV screens -- ridiculously upholstered, along with the ceiling of this bus -- is playing some video of asinine trivia. The ass inquiry is it's first offering. I'm not nearly as annoyed as the man seated beside me.

"Fucking thing...turn the fucking thing off...fucking...fuck...turn fucking thing off!"

He spits the words out as they bubble up through garbles of phlegm.

"Fuck...fuck fuckfuckfuckfucking TURN IT OFF!!"

I'm staring off to the right; at nothing; away from him. Is it over?

He barely whispers, "...cunt."

What, I think, our driver is a man. This early in the morning and this far from home, nitpicking the ramblings of a roaming, raving lunatic seems to be a reasonable thing to do. Is he still upset about Bewitched?

The Nicole Kidman and Will Ferrell vehicle was the in-trip movie, and my coarse companion did not hesitate to share his hatred of it with anyone in earshot. I preferred the more civil method of trying to drown the movie out with my iPod, but for some reason the driver had the movie's volume at an ungodly high level.

So I was forced to watch most of it. From what I gathered, Kidman falls for Ferrell and they end up together. I thought Kidman was playing the witch? Ferrel's character would have to be a warlock of considerable powers -- of the mountains into oceans variety -- to achieve such a feat. I thought I saw Michael Caine collecting a paycheck, but that could have been fatigue. Or denial; I still refuse to recognize Bob Hoskins' role in Maid In Manhattan, unless it's to point out when the acting begins and ends in the movie. Is he in the room? Yes? Then actual acting is occurring. No? Then enjoy the view(Jennifer Lopez provides a great view).

Anyway, Bewitched mercifully ended around three thirty in the morning, fooling me -- and my cursing seatmate -- into thinking we would be treated to the pleasantness of a dark, silent bus.

Then the TV asked as about the bitch donkey, before going on to test our knowledge of the Jackson 5 and Jim Palmer. Considering the cheesy new wave music, the video must have been produced sometime in the mid eighties. It went from question to question using screen wipes straight out of a high school audio/visual club production(the circle! the star! the turning page!).

Still, cunt?

Thankfully, the driver kills the video. The crazy bastard beside me is still muttering though. I can't be sure, but I think he might be half asleep. His rantings start out as whispers before riding a parabola up to screeches. Wiggling in my seat, leg sticking out into the aisle, I lay my head on half the head rest, trying to give him as much space possible while retaining some small measure of comfort.

I can't risk listening to my iPod; I might miss an audible clue of his inevitable attempt to slash my throat. That rules out sleep as well. Looking up at the ceiling -- why is it upholstered? -- I realize I have to be at work in six hours. I won't have time for any snoozing after my arrival, it will pretty much be a stop at my apartment and maybe the gym before going to work. That leaves the remaining, reaming bus ride of roughly two hours as my only opportunity to sleep.

It's so dark out. People snore, my companion occasionally calls some phantom a motherfucking bitch, but otherwise the bus is silent. A big, empty, rumbling, silent chamber. Daring me to close my eyes.

Fuck it, I think, if he kills me in my sleep, at least there will be plenty of witnesses. Straight to judge, jury, and executioner. I put some classical music on my iPod, recline the seat, and close my eyes.

I wake up minutes before our arrival in DC, unharmed, to the sound of my companion's whistle-high snoring. It's 4:30 in the morning. This is the life.

And I'm doing it all again this weekend(though hopefully not coming home as late).

Oh, and a female donkey is called a Jenny.