As predicted about a week ago, the disappearance of the clouds from the sky leads to the clearing of the clouds in my mind.
It also doesn't hurt that Surfergrrl and I have backstage! passes! to! JACK! JOHNSON!
Us and Jack, in barefoot glory, eating banana pancakes. Just you wait. He's writing a song about it.
Does anyone remember, back in the days of The Sixth Sense, when M. Night Shyamalan was considered a creative new force in cinema?
Knowing that makes watching The Happening infinitely more painful.
I don't even have the words to express what a bad movie this was. The theatre starting laughing hysterically when a tear-stained John Leguizamo shouted "Don't take my daughter's hand unless you mean it!", and then just didn't stop... and it wasn't supposed to be funny. Even when Marky Mark shouted "We'll be okay if we outrun the wind!", it wasn't supposed to be funny. Seriously, it was some of the most lazy and cliched filmmaking I've ever seen. We actually were laughing hysterically for the next day about how horrific it was. It makes Snakes on a Plane look like an Oscar contender.
Saturday was wonderfully sunny, which excited the Duke and I to near manic levels. We decided that frolicking in the sunshine was the most important item on our agenda, and headed off to the lovely green seclusion of the botanical gardens.
My friend N. is the ultimate conversation starter. A few weeks ago, after gorging on BBQ left a group of people sprawled out and silent on a friend's massive deck, she decided to kick-start the chatting by asking everyone to tell the story behind their worst scars. Saturday night, as we sat on a rooftop patio, sipping wine and watching seagulls float overhead, she had another request-- everyone's worst drunken vomiting story. We heard of sleeping in ditches, passing out in toilet bowls, and, worst of all, of covering tell-tale stains the next morning with a towel during an open house. Each one had us breaking down into peals of laughter.
My own? Involves my 19th birthday, a Monday night, a grasshopper martini, and my mother. More details available upon request...
(I'm not sure such details are really everyone's weekday morning cup of tea)
"Let's get our dumplings on!"
"It's like a meaty surprise!"
Sunday morning dim sum!
However, I'm afraid that getting one's dumplings on was nowhere near as fantastic as it may sound.
We arrived at the stated place at the stated time, supposedly to meet up with about 10 other friends for assorted tasty, ingredients unknown goods. Instead, we were met with utter chaos. A restaurant that literally seated hundreds, with families squeezed into every which corner of the lobby, and people surging towards the host. I managed to make it to the front of the line, attempting to inform the host about our reservation. I was blocked by arms and shouts from every which direction, and eventually just slammed my feet down, elbows out, with my torso literally pressed up against the host's podium, in an attempt to be noticed.
The first woman asked me for how many. I told her I had a reservation under my friend's name. She just walked away. The next man, after another several people shouting names and numbers at him, actually started getting information from the woman directly behind me, who pointed out that I was clearly in front of him. I again told him about the reservation. He crossed it off the list, nodded, and then went on to the next person... with no effort to get me a table. Two minutes later, I ask him again. He asks me how many again. I tell him 12. He nods, and ignores me for another five minutes. I don't know if he's telling me that I need all the twelve people here this very moment, or the table is still occupied, or what. My friends are all now 20 minutes late. I hear yelling erupt in the crowd about the poor service and people butting in line. We decide to just leave, as it isn't worth this drama for a brunch we didn't even organize for people who couldn't show up on time. Of course, it is then they all arrive en masse, and it turns out that someone had already gotten a table 20 minutes ago... something the host never even bothered telling me.
Several deep breaths were had.
Several more were had when we experienced possibly the worst service on the planet. We were put in a side room where the carts didn't apparently venture, and where the waiter barked at us to hurry up and order despite having no menus. This was the same waiter who had the balls to tell us our hour late sticky pork buns were still being cooked.
At this point, the Duke summed it up aptly in saying "I think we already know that the possibility of a tip has been completely eliminated. Now it's just a matter of how much we have to steal from them to make this entire experience worth it."
Post dim-sum, with some lovely new china in hand (kidding!), we moseyed over to the Car-Free Festival in one of the more eclectic areas of town. It was there that we were greeted by bongo drums, lemonade stands, people parading down the street declaring "You can't buy our rivers!", and the following interaction...
L: Wow, that guy dancing over there has some seriously short shorts. I mean, I pretty much can see his balls.
L: Oh God... I did just see his balls.
Me: Me too!
L: Well, he puts a new meaning to the phrase "rock out with your cock out!"
PS. Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there!