Thursday, June 7, 2012

DC Diaries

Greetings, everyone. Let me start by saying that this post is long overdue, and henceforth requires a thousand apologies to you. Lately, I just have not been myself. Ask around, they will concur with that statement. I know my personal life never graces this blog, and I mean never, and should not at all affect me from writing my usual film material. Unfortunately, it does affect me tremendously. At the moment, I've been emotionally distracted (with what, I will not share) and cannot seem to focus on anything. That being said, I don't want to force myself to write something just because I haven't in a while. If I did, can you imagine the rubbish I would produce? Furthermore, I will not be making anymore promises with any future posts, for it would pressure me into resenting its publication. Therefore, hang in there, baby. The following is a little diary I wrote when I was in Washington D.C. for Memorial Day Weekend. As I said, long overdue. Please enjoy my not-at-all personal vacation antics.

Saturday, May 26, 2012

I've come to the resolution that I will record my days in Washington D.C. Did I mention? I'm going to the nation's capital for Memorial Day weekend. How patriotic of me. Don't go following me there, I've had enough bad experiences with obsessed admirers. Anyway, right now, as I have decided to compose a small diary, I am on the road to my destination. It's a three-hour drive, in a car full of noise, so I might as well occupy my time by ranting. But, no, I won't rant. That's too crass for my taste. (That didn't stop me before. Enjoying my comments so far?) You're probably pitying me for being trapped in such a loud vehicle. Allow me to paint a picture: my mother's husband making pointless comments that are made all the more aggravating by the sheer lack of necessity for them; my brother hopelessly agreeing with everything he says; and my mother's incessant coughing. That last one isn't too obnoxious because she can't help it. In fact, despite my utter intolerance for sickly bodily sounds, hers are not unbearable. I just feel really sorry for her, especially of late, for she is, once again, accepting the horrible treatment of her husband and son. It's truly sad, but that's her choice, unfortunately. Moving on, I won't get too personal with my possibly non-existent emotional trouble. Some trouble. Not.

As I was saying, to drown out the mind-numbing ambiance of the car, I have the relief of my iPod, of which is credited to the late genius Steve Jobs. Worth attributing to, I think. What's on my playlist, you may wonder? Lately, I've been listening to vintage rock of the 1960s and 1970s, particularly The Doors and The Beatles. Within this nostalgic mix are so-called "one-hit wonders" such as Venus by Shocking Blue and House of the Rising Sun by The Animals. I believe watching Forrest Gump aroused this crave of classic rock. (I noticed I used the word "nostalgic" to describe my playlist, which is misleading since I was not around at the time they were initially popular.) 96 Tears by ? & The Mysterians just came on. I've always recognized this song from various films, just had no one to attribute it to. Now I do. Listening to these groovy tunes ignites a desire to smoke a cigarette for some odd reason. And, no, not an illegal cigarette, otherwise known as marijuana. Will the government investigate me because I mentioned marijuana? Twice? I have nothing to hide. (Love Street by The Doors. I'll be letting you know which songs come on at the exact moment they do.) This music just flows through my body, releasing all my inhibitions and stress. Here is the coveted stress-reliever for those thightly-wound people of the world. As I listen to it, my eyes shut on a reflex and my body may or may not ebb with the soft melody. With louder music, my body also corresponds with the harder beats. (Pictures of Matchstick Men by Status Quo.) One would make the confident supposition that I will be exploring the historic sights of our nation's capital. What naivety. I've seen what people come to see, well more than once. I've done the double-decker bus tour twice, the tour of the Capitol twice, roamed through museums. Yada yada yada. It is unbearably crowded with people who have never seen the remarkable artifacts, so I'll let them ravage in peace. Meanwhile, my mother and I will explore the beautiful city of Georgetown. (A Hard Day's Night by The Beatles.) It's true, we've seen parts of Georgetown already, but there is always something new to discover. Another pleasure of this quaintly modern city is the delicacy of cuisine. Food. Have you ever noticed that the term "food" has such a greedy, hungry connotation, fitting only those who are overweight? I prefer to use the term "cuisine" whenever possible. (People are Strange by The Doors.) Here in Georgetown, the cuisine is absolutely scrumptious, and so varied. Rest assured I will try to remember to take pictures of my meals and post them here. Not to make you envious, oh no, but to show just how delectable they are.

Let us transfer to another tangent for a moment. For the past week, I've been experiencing several excruciating spasms in my feet. (Strange Days by The Doors.) This has always happened every now and then, which, according to my doctor, is because of my low calcium intake, or something of that nature. However, these feet spasms have become more frequent, spreading throughout my body to my hands, chest, and back. Once I was able to sit up straight in a chair and read until my bottom became sore. Now, I can't sit still for even a half-hour, for my back would begin to constrict and plead for me to lay down. Last night, in particular, I simply had to lay down on my bed, without the strength to get under my plush blanket. And I just fell asleep hard. (Sex and the City 2 reference. Charlotte in Abu Dhabi after her nap. "I slept hard." Okay.) Following my stiff nights, I would awaken to an entire body-sore, from my immobile legs to my aching head. My mother will probably hyper-ventilate when she reads this. Don't worry, it has nothing to do with my nutrition/health habits. (Not to Touch the Earth by The Doors.) After a soothing shower, I feel completely rejuvenated, ready for a three-to-four-hour drive to Washington D.C.

At the moment, we are taking a sharp turn on the highway. My body was literally thrown to the other side of the car. I'm sitting in the spacious back seat, if you need a mental picture. Really? There's no graceful method of turning? (Love Her Madly by The Doors.) My mother is reading a book as we drive, just what I advised her not to do. Reading in a bumpy, chaotic vehicle, made uncomfortable by the recklessness of the driver, will only cause a pounding headache. I guess she'll wait and see. Writing while driving isn't that much better. I'm referring to myself, naturally. I'd better stop for now.

A few hours later...

We arrived at the hotel at 1:00pm, and already we encountered several complications. For the average person, they would be minor mishaps, casually received with indifference. Much as how I reacted. My brother, on the other hand, is a bit of a misanthrope, I'm sorry to say. He immediately began to pout upon hearing that our room wasn't ready yet. In the defense of the hotel, check-in is between noon and 3pm. Anyway, while the room was being prepared, my mother and I (just us two, mind you, how relaxing) went to this organic French cafe I visited last winter with my dad. All I wanted was a very light lunch, a sandwich perhaps, as we were going for Italian that night. (Am I alternating from present to past tense?) And I was more than satisfied with a healthy tar tine, which is much like a sandwich only without the top slice of bread. On this slice of whole-wheat bread, I had avocado, cucumbers, and chickpeas. Deliciously organic and healthy. I felt so hip eating there, like one of those health-freak folks from the West coast. Stereotypes. On our way back to the hotel, the intense heat was starting to affect me. With petty determination, I marched to the room (and, considering how anxious I was to get there, it took a while) and literally slid into the shower. One can imagine how refreshing it was. Afterwards, I dried my hair to a silky smooth, and lied down on the bed. And here I am. Even now, I'm struggling to keep my eyes open as I write this segment. Shoulder spasm.

Later that evening...

What goes well with painful spasms? Why, blisters, of course. I don't know about you, but the word "blister", to me, is just so nasty. Not just the sound of the word itself, but the thing as well. Anyway, the culprit is my new pair of Tommy Hilfiger sandals. (I represent the company's marketing division.) When I was younger, I used to call it "Tommy Hillfinger". There was a point where I called it "Tommy Hitler" too, so whenever people trash-talked Hitler, I thought of the clothing brand and thought, "What's so bad about Tommy Hitler?" Their shoes.

Moving on. I would like to note that my mother's incessant cough has reached its peak of extreme irritation. I am in no way blaming her, though I do find it harder to be around her. Because of the cough. I would listen to my tunes, but my head is pounding as it is. (The hell with it. House of the Rising Sun by The Animals.) The remainder of my evening consisted of dinner and a movie. For dinner, we all went to this rustic Italian restaurant. I use the word "rustic" to describe this place because it often is used to describe Italian restaurants. Haven't you noticed? Tonight, there was a special party taking place right next to our table. Like the student of sociology that I am, I studied them quite frequently, deciding whether they were Italian or Jewish. (I was leaning toward Jewish because I find myself attracted to that race. Religion? The men of the party were rather attractive.) I had the veal marsala with a side of gin and tonic. For dessert, a tiny sliver of cheesecake that demanded a slice of Napolean, as the first was much too minuscule.

Our movie for the evening was The Five-Year Engagement, starring the ever-adorable Emily Blunt and the penis guy from Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Let me just say now, for the record: I don't care for Jason Segal, better known as the penis guy. The movie itself was decent, though nothing hilariously special. One would expect much more from a Judd Apatow-produced picture. Then again, what has the guy concocted that was as funny as Knocked Up or Pineapple Express? He produced the latter. The movie in question, The Five-Year Engagement that is, relied far too much on certain jokes. I could tell by the long intervals between certain lines, mostly said by the penis guy or his supposedly-funny sidekick, played by the supposedly-funny Chris Pratt. Indeed, both men were too unfunny to make the entire movie likable. Though Emily Blunt's undeniable likability made the picture what I would call to be "decent". Unfortunately, the casting crew was not as bright when it came to hiring the male lead. Of course, there are always those damned unfortunate incidents when making a movie. Channing Tatum, for example, being cast as the male lead in The Vow, opposite the wonderful Rachel McAdams, was an enormous mistake, in my eyes. While I haven't yet seen that one, I can assure you my overall judgment is already lowered solely because of Channing Tatum. Let the record show that I don't care for Channing Tatum either. Anyway, as for The Five-Year Engagement, most of the laughs were brought on by the transient supporting cast, especially Chris Parnell as the sweater-knitting stay-at-home dad. Finally, the night ends with throwing those forsaken sandals at the wall and falling onto bed. Seriously, I tripped on my way to lay down, falling on the bed, and I just stayed there. Good night, and good luck.

Monday, May 28, 2012

It appears that I have neglected to record my routine for yesterday, that being the twenty-seventh of May. I suppose you could say that I became lazy, what with the immense heat striking me severely. Perhaps I had a bit too many gin and tonics yesterday, as well, and I didn't want to inflict you all with my disturbing, hyper-active state. Anyway, don't fret over me because we all make our own decisions, society has nothing to do with them, nor does my environment. Which are two in the same, if you can believe it! At the moment, we have just left Georgetown and are on our way home. And might I briefly express my relief for this fact. I had my fun, but it's time to get the hell out of here. (What a simple sentence.) Instead of taking the conventional route home, on a major highway preferably, the driver decides to take an "alternative route", which is on some shrubbery, Pulaski highway. (Pulaski highway is a term that describes an unknown, suspicious highway.) The seat belt, as of this moment, is grazing against my upper shoulder, and is becoming rather irritating. Yes, a rash may very well form. Excuse my tinge of irritability, if there is any, for I am simply anxious to get home. Since I cannot endure this trip without my iPod, I am listening to my vintage playlist for what may be the third time. I think I'll go and watch some Desperate Housewives on my glorious MacBook. Oh, haven't you heard? I've started to rewatch the old seasons of the show, back when it was still engrossing and amusing. Why, right now, I'm in the middle of the third season, after the whole hostage-disaster-episode. That, I must say, was one of the highlights of the show, where I found myself in unexplainable tears. When I was younger, of course this episode would trigger some traumatic nerve in me that would summon tears to fall. Now? Why would the death of the annoying, white-trash Nora upset me so much? And Lynette nearly dying? Quite curious. Anyway. I hope you've enjoyed my little summary of my trip to the nation's capital. I guess that's about it. Well, bye.

As for the photos of cuisine from my adventure, I will try to upload them onto here, if I can manage to transfer them from my Blackberry. I had to say the name of my phone for the same reason I say MacBook instead of laptop. Once again, farewell for now.

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