Trailer Park

I have a love/hate relationship with movie trailers. As much as I can curl up for hours here and here and inhale trailers, they do tend to be for movies I don’t actually want to see, have never heard of, or just want to expressly make fun of. The movies I really really want to see? I try to avoid those trailers. Because whoever cuts them, is a complete and total dick about it. My main offender and the worst thing I saw this week? The trailer for ‘Shutter Island,’ the new Scorsese movie. It is way too long and way spoilerific. The first time it came on, and as more and more things revealed themselves, I did my patented “Next time on Lost” move: hid under a blanket with eyes squished shut, pistoned my fingers in and out of my ears and “la-la-la’d” until it was over. Seriously, at least a goddamn Scorsese movie deserves an intelligently cut trailer that reveals just a little but leaves you wanting more. It infuriates me that the movie-going public is regarded as buttery fingered monkeys that need to know Plot Points A-Z before they even get to the box office. (Full lazy disclosure: I totally stopped writing this and went to watch some trailers. If I’m sick, it’s a good sick) Now, the best thing I saw this week were the opening credits to ‘How To Make It In America.’ I haven’t even watched the show yet, but if the credits are any indication (oversized fonts, great NYC images, great song) I will love this show.

We watched ‘Crazy Heart‘ and the best thing I heard this week was the country (!!) music that was written for this film. Perfectly scripted little heartbreak ditties in the old vein of country music, not the tanned windblown pop-country making millions right now. I had no idea both Jeff Bridges (so grizzly and Kristofferson-ed in this beautiful role) and Colin Farrell (playing a character I’ve never seen him embody but getting it just right) can both sing. And sing well. Believably and comfortably, and convincingly enough that the few songs that are showcased in the movie are now firmly embedded in my head radio. For someone who loathes most country music, this is a fantastic feat. And ‘Crazy Heart’ a movie definitely worth seeing. Bridges will win the Oscar for this one. (Sorry sweet Clooney.)

Nuv is 2/3 of the way through a backpiece tattoo, the likes and lengths of which I would have to be sedated and put to sleep for both the actual tattooing and recovery time. I am in charge of helping with the post needle-attack cleanup. And let me tell you, the worst thing I have smelled all week, and likely all year, is what comes forth when the bandages and tape come off the weeping flesh. Imagine the smell of hospitals, extreme blood loss and a Bic pen factory distilled down into a concentrate. Thank god I’m really good at breathing through my mouth.

Oh, Forever 21. Fine, yes, I’m not 21. Fair enough. But even when I was, I wanted garments that didn’t end at my nipples. All I can do is wander around and softly touch the sleeves of stunning jackets, magnificent sweaters, and adorable embellished blazers that are so short and so cropped that it almost looks like someone ran through the store with a chainsaw hacking everything off at a designated length. Wide and short, all wide and short. And so cute and cheap. I wandered mournfully through your taunting two floors of teeny tiny boob warmers and ended up buying only a scarf. Funny thing – it’s the longest scarf I have ever seen.

A week of best and worsts for ye olde taste buds. Best – Glee Gum. A gum actually made without artificial sweeteners, because I deplore the taste of aspartame (pronounced by my Mom and I as “uh-spart uh-me”) and 99.9% of gums have aspartame, or sugar and aspartame. It’s just gum, and it’s not going to alter my DNA and let me fit into Forever 21’s half-garments, but I feel marginally more virtuous for the 25 seconds of flavour that I get out of each piece. (Nuv asked for a piece and was angry at how it tasted. So, the opposite land of our marriage continues to healthily flourish.) The worst thing I tasted came from Choices, one of the high end overpriced specialty grocery stores that Vancouver loves to death. I go there solely for the rice bakery goodies and various other gf products and occasionally I get suckered into buying a can of what looks like tasty organic fizzy goodness. Now the one I bought Friday I threw out so angrily I forgot to note the name, but it’s in a gold can and it will hurt you and your taste buds. It was a sparkling mango drink, which sounded delicious. It tasted like a scientist dripped one drop of mango essence into a vat of fizzy coconut water that had been used to clean gas station bathroom floors. Effing terrible.