It was a delightfully sedate weekend. I slept. I took a bath. I played with my cats. I even cooked a proper meal. None of these are particularly noteworthy activities, I know, but I enjoyed them just the same.
Last night, James joined me for a night in at the movies, which turned out to be something of a mixed bag. First, we tried to watch a positively atrocious film called Maximum Overdrive, but aborted mission after about twenty minutes. The movie, which stars a painfully young Emilio Estevez, has the distinction of being the only Stephen King film that was also directed by Stephen King. It also features a soundtrack that is exclusively comprised of songs by AC/DC. Enough said.
Undaunted, we turned our attention to Larry Clark’s Bully, which was a considerably better choice, although far from pleasant viewing. Inspired, no doubt, by Estevez’s earlier appearance, I found myself wondering if any of the characters in The Breakfast Club ever gave or received an extra-diegetic blowjob. My money’s on Claire.
Finally, as a tribute to the recently departed news anchor, we watched an old episode of Peter Jennings Reporting about the DEA’s crackdown on Ecstasy. According to Jennings, both of the government-funded studies that “proved” that the drug had serious health risks were based on fatally flawed data and have since been retracted by the journals in which they originally appeared. Damn, I miss him.
Next time, I will have to subject James to Norman Mailer’s Tough Guys Don’t Dance, or, if it’s out, Frank Perry’s The Swimmer. Then, we’ll be even.