Yesterday, mercifully, was a half-day at work, which meant that I had a weekday afternoon free to do all the things that one wishes one could do, but can only do on the weekend, when everyone else has the same idea and consequently museums and Coney Island and restaurants all become impossible, crowded places. I had planned to meet up with RL, and had the nice idea of going down to the Storefront for Art and Architecture to see an exhibit of late Soviet-era architecture, as seen through images, films, and so on. I mean, how could you go wrong seeing an exhibit featuring this wondrous monstrosity?
I actually wouldn't know how you could go wrong seeing an exhibit featuring that wondrous montrosity, because by the time I got to Union Square, it was nearly 90 degrees, and all RL wanted to do was be indoors, in air-conditioned bliss. So we traipsed from cineplex to cineplex until we decided that Bug would be a really good idea. And so ... yeah. We saw Bug. And you know what? It was pretty friggin' glorious. I haven't laughed that hard while watching a 'psychological' 'thriller' since maybe Anaconda, back in the 90s, with MH and a bottle of Lagavulin. The dialogue in Bug was amazing. RL and I were trying to figure out afterwards how much the writers were in on the joke (if there was indeed a joke to be had), and decided that there's little way one can write or deliver lines like, "You don't know a thing about aphids!" or (my favorite) "I am the super mother bug!" without some pretty potent drugs and a fairly solid understanding of camp. I highly recommend you all check this out, inbetween barbecues, this weekend or any weekend this summer. God, yes.
RL pointed out that we were now batting 2-for-2 with the otherwise dreary Village East Cinemas, the saddest excuse for a first-run theatre in the city. Several weeks ago we had wandered in there to see 28 Weeks Later, which also proved to be pretty spectacular -- possibly even better than the original, but that's another post entirely -- and which also seemed to be setting a trope-ic trend: love bites. I don't want to spoil anything for anyone here, but suffice it to say that in both 28 Weeks Later and Bug, the exchange of fluids makes people crazy. Literally crazy. And I'm not talking crazy in love here. These films are making pretty compelling arguments for why we need to stop loving, and also then to stop using sex as the means through which we show that love. Because you screw, you lose. Hell, in 28 Weeks Later, you don't even need to screw. You love, you lose your mind. Completely.
I don't want to wax very philosophical, moral, or personal about this, except to say that I recently had brunch at a place not too far from my apartment, Zucco Le French Diner, which despite its huh? sort of name, was a lovely, lovely spot that really delivered the goods. And by goods I mean a great steak and eggs and mashed potatoes dish, as well as a wonderful fois gras, toast, and apple compote starter that maybe kind of blew my post-wine-addled mind. I'm not going to say it was better than sex, but I'd take that over potential insanity any day. Because everyone wins when they're eating fois gras. For brunch.
I'll probably head over to the late-Soviet architecture exhibit today, accidental celibacy in tow. Oh, but don't cry for me, relationshipped ones! I'm rather enjoying the return of my sanity.