I just watched a movie called New York, I Love You. It was my movie, chosen because Bradley Cooper is in it. When The Husband and I have exhausted the Netflix supply and the Redbox has nothing left but B horror movies and awful cartoons we find ourselves wandering aimlessly around one of the few remaining Blockbuster video stores still hanging on in the hopes that maybe people will suddenly remember how much they liked having to put their clothes on, leave their houses and interact with other humans in order to watch a movie, because streaming something on the interwebs and therefore not having to remove your Cheeto stained pajamas is too much of a bother. We usually end up renting more than one movie – one (or some) for us, and one for me. I watch more movies because I don’t currently have a jobby that takes up 89% of my time (by the way, in my head jobby is a combo term, comprised of the words job and hobby. I’m telling you that so you’ll refrain from googling it and then thinking that I’m talking about turds). His Siren – the sleek, sexy, new guitar – calls his name, beckons with her sleek, sexy voice and he must answer that call. Me? Not so much. Sure, I jabber on a blog occasionally, but mostly I’m too tepid for anything to consume that much of me. Oh I have moments (delusions of grandeur I like to call them) where I think maybe I’ll be a real writer, but mostly it just doesn’t take up much of my time, so I watch movies. Occasionally I think to myself “should it bother me that he spends so much time with that guitar? Should I want him to spend more time with me?” And then I realize how lucky I am that my husband’s mistress is a guitar, not a woman. Marriage is about compromise. Anyway, my movie. It was an independent, artsy flick, meaning it was odd. Not David Lynch odd, where you couldn’t follow anything and wondered why everybody else is always like “oh my GOD, the genius of David Lynch” because you’re like “What was with that strange guy with the shiny thing? Was he even part of the story?”, but odd enough that I rolled my eyes a few times. By the way, you David Lynch fans, before you crucify me, what is the deal? I just cannot get into his shit. Do you actually understand and appreciate his weirdness? Or is it like an emperor’s new clothes kind of a thing? When I was seventeen I had a crush on this guy who was older than me and taking film classes so he made me watch David Lynch movies and because I was A – an idiot, B – desperately trying to seem older than my years and C – hoping to lose my virginity that summer (sorry mom!) I went along with it. So yeah, my movie, this disjointed, indie flick. There were like a dozen different story lines, all happening in New York, all sort of coinciding with each other – kind of like Crash only not the worst movie ever made (don’t get me started on that movie, you will regret it. I. Hated. It. So. Much.) Each piece was written and directed by a different person – kind of like Four Rooms only without all the Tarantino/Rodriguez stank. Apparently it’s part of a larger project, the end credits will direct you to a cryptic website with very little information, the gist is that they’re making more movies about more cities. Next stop, Jerusalem. Whatever. My overall opinion of this movie can be summed up thusly:
The End.