Friday. Constantine. There’s a review in the works, a collaborative effort with the mighty Zip. But for now, let it be known that I might’ve been wrong. Also, it was more than a little unsettling to get carded as we walked into the Medlock Bridge movie house. Yes, I know that Constantine is an R-rated film, but I can’t remember the last time (or any-time) that someone actually ensured that I was not only ticketed properly, but over the age of 17. I suppose it was because of the content, the high-end good versus evil subject matter, because for a movie about empty-skulled demons and black-winged angels, there wasn’t a surfeit of gore and hardly any nudity. None, actually.
Saturday. Cleaning, cleaning and then some cleaning. Our house hasn’t looked this “adult” (it was the word that kept coming out through the day, so I’m going with it) in a long time. It’s simply amazing what a little organization and some furniture rearranging can do for your home. Our prime motivation for the scourging was Sunday night, of course, but we’ll benefit from this more in the long run. And the cats, too … though I’m sure they’ll miss the now diminished piles of lounge-worthy laundry.
We ended our Saturday with Jewels and Low. This was a kind of celebratory dinner to mark the latest JIVE printing (now in a full-figured 8.5″ x 11″ size). Low picked Kobe Steaks, which sounded like a great idea at the time. When I first moved to Atlanta in 1995, I frequented a now-defunct Irish pub that occupied the groundfloor courtyard of The Prado in Sandy Springs, probably because it most resembled Durty Nelly’s, a favorite haunt in Chattanooga. Everytime I went, I’d pass the big, dark doors of Kobe and I would imagine the coolness and class that waited inside.
The details of our dinner are worth a post unto itself, but let me try to sum up. We arrived, we waited and eventually we were seated. The host said to us, “I’m sorry for the delay … may we seat you with another party?” Well, this is a Japanese steakhouse and we only numbered four, so we were expecting to be seated with other folks anyway. Sure. We’ll be seated with another party. Little did we know that the “other party” was actually a birthday party. Now, there weren’t party hats and balloons. This wasn’t an affair for a ten year old. But the behavior of our joined was just as loud and obnoxious as any pack of rabid pre-schoolers. I cannot express in simple text the volume and content of the evening’s revels, but imagine the following line delivered at full volume in response to the chef’s preparation of filet mignon:
OHMYGOD!!DIDYOUSEETHAT?!?LOOKATHIMFLIPPIN’THATSTEAK!!!WOOOOO!!DAMN!!!
Meanwhile, we were in our corner, discussing magazine business and books worth reading and trying to eat our delayed food until we just couldn’t take it anymore. We got up and found our check. I felt sorry for the overburdened waitress as she stopped us in the lobby, her tray filled with little bowls. “You don’t want ice cream?” No, ma’am … not if we have to go back in there.
Sunday. A bit more cleaning. A little grocery shopping. And some quick preparation for our Oscar hangout. We were prepared this year, having moved the futon around and perpendicular to the couch, thus providing plenty of comfortable celebrity watching. Snacks came in the form of veggies, chips, dip, salsa, cheese, cookies, crackers, brownie and even popcorn balls. So much stuff was there for the grazing that we didn’t even have to go for the pizzas on reserve.
For pre-show entertainment, Zip brought over Katamari Damacy. Wow. Words do not even begin.
But what about the awards? Again, another topic worthy of a seperate post … but what was interesting to me about this Oscar telecast was what was missing. There was no opening musical number — which was probably a relief to Chris Rock. He’s funny, but I don’t know if he can sing anything beyond “No Sex (in the Champagne Room)” from Bigger & Blacker. There was no huge dance numbers to illustrate all of the nominees for best score. There was no testing of the rented risers by having every single living Oscar winner pile on stage one more time. All of these omissions helped to trim the Oscars to a close before midnight, so I can’t say I missed any of them. I would suggest, however, that they ask Beyonce to only sing one song next year, instead of the three she performed last night in various makes and models of costume. Again, a very talented lady, but surely other people were available that could’ve picked up the slack. I thought that Josh Grobin was going to kick her off the stage with his over-sized too-tall Hobbit feet, but he kept his composure and his Middle Earth origins remained discreetly hidden.
He looks like Peregrin Took. Admit it.
And the winners? I can’t say I was displeased with a single one. Last year was rather decent for movies, all in all. I’m proud of Jamie Foxx, of course. And I knew that Cate Blanchett was going to win. She had too. Do I think that Scorcese was robbed? No. The Aviator was good, a hell of a spectacle with a fantastic soundtrack, but it wasn’t the best of the year and it is not the best that Scorcese has or will ever do. Million Dollar Baby was the best of 2005. (So was Ray, so was Finding Neverland … but only one gets the statue. Unlike kindergarten, everybody can’t be a winner on Oscar Night.)
And that was my weekend. I rolled into work this morning, buoyed by the Katamari soundtrack — which made traffic far more bearable. You just imagine how nice it would be to bowl over everyone in front of you, make them into a massive ball of SUVs, then make a star our of them before you walk into the office.
If only.
