Drinking mid-week = not best idea ever

Went to Dallas BBQ last night. It was yet another one of those memorable Dallas BBQ nights, where the topics of conversation scared other patrons and won us funny looks and will, of course, not be spoken of outside of the drunken revelry of Dallas BBQ. Dallas BBQ is like Vegas: what happens there, stays there. You're free to talk about other memorable conversations had there only there.

Of course, post-Dallas BBQ is not the best time to remember you need to go to the drug store for stuff. I trotted off to grab a soda to take my pill (I cannot dry swallow the tiny bastard; it just sticks to my tongue) and some chapstick, dragging trakkie along with. She couldn't remember what she needed there at first; I suggested deodorant, and lo! That was it! I only said it because I, too, required some (I keep one on my bureau and one for travelling purposes, and I'd run out of the former and was substituting the latter--no more!). I also needed toothpaste, but that's not something I remember until I'm already home, way back uptown. Oh well. Shall have to fetch some later.

If that were the worst of it, I suppose that would be okay. The worst part about shopping while tipsy is that the paltry excuse for impulse control I have? Gone. *SNAP* Vanished. I bought two things of nailpolish--one it looks like I already have, the other I actually like A LOT, so I guess that's okay--and some chapstick (I just bought one the other week! ARGH! WHY CAN'T I EVER HOLD ONTO CHAPSTICK!?) and a nail file (recalling that I couldn't find mine) and about three different kinds of Garnier hair stuffs (when TV is girly, she prefers hair-and-nails girlie stuffs, not makeup). For which my former roommate scolded me--the bottles were green and I appointed her person-in-charge-of-diversifying-my-color-scheme, hence her antipathy towards letting me have anything green. Whatever. Now I have new hairstuffs to play with!

And, the capper of the evening well spent with friends was getting on the subway to go uptown and getting poked by trakkie. Moment of confusion ensued, in which I was totally sure I was on the wrong train. Turns out she was. It was a nice extra few minutes to girl-chat tipsily before she got off at 34th and I went on my merry way. Did you know that Sandman is a lot less interesting when tipsy? Because I already balk at the all-mighty-before-Neil-Gaiman-there-were-no-comics attitude the collections have, and when you're a little too fuzzy to appreciate the things he and the artists working on it are doing well....ayah.

Deliver Us From Evil

I left my drinking friends last night, joking about this documentary I was going to watch about a pedophile priest and how I'd have to be drunk or else I'd totally be freaked out by it. It kinda got me weird looks all around--probably because why on earth would I want to watch that anyway? The answer is: the movie got great reviews, and I had saved it on my Netflix account and it just came up finally on the queue. I tend to do that with anything I might have a vague interest in seeing but no motivation to seek out in the theaters. This was one of them.

...

Let me be the first to say I regret all the jokes I made about watching this movie and needing a drink. I could have had two texas-sized margaritas before watching it and I still would have been stone-cold sober after about twenty minutes. This isn't a movie that drives you to drink--the horror drives the drink OUT of you.

( If stories of abuse bother you, skip this review. )

Whew. That was draining. This is a terrific film. Well cut, well done, marvelous interviews, sad commentary on the world today.

Oh, and that priest? Roaming free in Ireland now after serving half his sentence. Half the movie is spent following him around on his perambulations, during which he freely leches at kids in a park or on the sidewalk. GROSS ME OUT. They don't have anything like Megan's Law there, either, so no one is obligated to inform the people living near him of his convictions or previous history of abusive behavior. Fan-fucking-tastic. Grossest scene in the whole movie? His writing to his victims, asking them to come to Ireland so they can all talk and "heal." The male victim's scorn of the man is amazing, and worth the rental alone. He's so disgusted by the idea of being collected up by this man so he might relive his former abuse, but he doesn't want to go specifically because he knows it won't help him. He couldn't give a shit what the priest thinks would help, and he says something to the effect of "It's not about what happens to him--revenge or his suffering or whatever. It's about me getting better." There's so much beauty in that, I started crying again.

Just two more, I promise

I went back to the kitty site because I needed cheering up after just thinking about the documentary I posted about earlier.

So, I promise promise promise, these are the last kitties I shove in y'alls faces.

( This one reminds me of my Oscar. If I let him go outdoors, this WOULD be my Oscar. )

( And this is definitely like my Max. Only this kitty doesn't look as angry as Max can (and often does). )

KItties are a great comfort to me.