64: "Vall kapot! Late we eten."

I don’t remember what I did Friday but obviously, whatever it was, it wasn’t writing the flip front. I went to work, ate the nasty free lunch (gummy pasta and cardboard-like chicken! oh boy!), and went home. Ate at La Cumbamba (William gaves us free wine), rented “The Producers”, watched it with Kevin, then caught up on my “Queer as Folk” reruns. Those QaF boys — so cute! So witty! Why can’t straight boys be that adorable and well-dressed?

Saturday was more eventful, as I saw “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon” again. I saw it with Kevin and Kathy for the sinfully low price of $5 and two bits. There was a super-long line, which worried me until I learned the other people were on line for “Exit Wounds” featuring Jean-Claude Damme and DM-“Y’all gonna make me lose my mind up in here!”-X. Ahem. Anyway, the movie is as fantastic as ever, and I feel good knowing that it is entirely possible to kick someone’s ass while you’re sipping tea (it’s all in the wrist).

My large popcorn nearly ruined my appetite. Barely touched the damn thing, which send Kathy into fits of laughter. Ever the smart one, she brought her own microwave popcorn. I should have done that. Or at least gotten some salt and vinegar potato chips. Afterwards, we went to BJ’s on 87th and Stony for some excellent greens and, in my case, a lovely meatloaf. I love BJ’s, which is fast food but it’s actually good for you. So if you’re in Hyde Park and feel like going for a junk food run down Stony Island Blvd, go straight to BJ’s, get the mashed potatoes and peach cobbler.

It was entirely too cold to go anywhere else but Michael’s tiny studio apartment. Yes, Michael is back from Cape Town! We listened to music, looked at nine rolls worth of pictures (with 11 more rolls to come!), and made fun of Michael’s friend Mike Murphy, who slept fitfully and would wake up only to make useless and amusing contributions to our conversation. When the boys went up north for a night of dancing, I walked through the brisk air (trusty cigarette shoved jauntily in the corner of my mouth — not that I’m glamorizing this disgusting and dangerous habit or anything) to Sean and Michelle’s apartment.

They were watching “Wonder Boys”. Which I’ve seen before. I’ve now seen it three times. I tried to tune it out and immerse myself in the latest issue of “TV Guide”, but Michael Douglas kept calling to me. Also, he drove my dream car — a 1966 Galaxie 500. I know I’ve told some of you that my dream car is a Karmann Ghia, but my heart is big enough to love more than one.

Speaking of love, I think it helps to be in love if you want to tango. If not in love, then in extreme “like” with someone. And if not in like, then have access to an unattached person who isn’t averse to dancing among people who are entirely comfortable wearing sequined berets. I went to Club 720 tonight with my friend Khloe and her boyfriend Jeff, as they feature salsa, merengue, and tango dancing on Tuesday nights. $5 gets you into the bar, where instructors are happy to show you the basic steps for as long as you need. We learned the basic 8-step salida and the ocho al frente, which is hard if the only dancing you’ve been doing recently has been shaking your ass to B-96 in front of your television on a lonely Saturday night. I was wearing my beloved Pumas, which are fine for slinking down the street or shopping for lip liner (which I did instead of going to see Dave Eggers read — sorry, Andrea, but I wasn’t about to sit watch a simulcast with a bunch of pretentious indie rock types sporting messy haircuts), but not so great if you’re trying to slide around in time to impossibly romantic music.

Khloe and I practiced, taking turns with Jeff around the floor. I wasn’t brave enough to ask anyone to dance, and anyway, it looks like everyone else brought their own partners. Smooth, older couples moved around the room with more grace than I’ve seen in a long time. And this was after the Oscars, where a great many winners tried to be gracious but failed miserably, I think. It was a lot like that “Can I Step with You?” show on public access. Color-coordinated couples executed elegant turns around a strobe-lit floor. The women favored open-toed sandals and sequins, paillettes, glitter, the men sharply cut suits and imported cigars. It was a beautiful thing. I’d like to return next week, and I need a partner, so e-mail me if you’re interested.

So yeah, the Oscars. I feel bad for Ridley Scott. Steven Soderbergh did a great job with “Traffic”, but he’s 38. He’s going to have many more opportunities to make great films, some of those even better than “Traffic”, I’m certain. But Ridley is older, and probably won’t. I won’t say that he was robbed (I reserve that sentiment for Ang Lee), but it doesn’t seem entirely fair. And sometimes, for me anyway, it’s more important to be fair than to be correct. Of course, I can only think of Steve Martin’s words, which are somewhat related to my own sentiment: “They used to say when they opened the envelope, ‘And the winner is …’ And you’ll notice they’ve changed it to ‘And the Oscar goes to …’ Because God forbid anyone should think of this as a competition. It might make the trade ads seem crass.”

On a fashion-related note, Julia Roberts had the best dress but Joan Allen looked the best. I guessed that her orange beaded gown was Michael Kors, and was pleased to read in the wire stories that I was right. I am such a fashion guru, though if you’ve seen what I’ve been wearing lately I’m sure you’d question me. I’ve been living in wrinkled khakis and snug turtlenecks for the last three years. This post-graduate life, it’s been rough, let me tell you.

The RSVPs for my tea party haven’t quite been pouring in. I’m not worried. I’ll make enough for 15 to 20, and if you don’t get a sandwich because you’re late, don’t worry. Just go out for dinner when the party’s over — there’s a great Thai restaurant down the street. And the grocery store has ramen available for purchase. I myself will be napping and putting on entirely too much eye shadow, so that when I go out later that evening, girls can look in my reflective eyelids to reapply their lip gloss.

I got my cdnow.com order today, and spent the day listening to “The Harder They Come” soundtrack. That and “The Great Adventures of Slick Rick”. Gotta love it. There’ve been some questions about me writing more, maybe publishing the flip front. I guess that would be neat. I could easily print out these e-mails, photocopy them at the local copy shop, and convince the good people at Quimby’s to put them on the same shelf as “Giant Robot”. Which would please me so much. It’s not entirely “unpossible”, as Ralph Wiggum would say. Michael tells me that Asians are “in” this year, so I’m sure that the thoughts of a sassy Asian-American girl would be welcomed by the literati. But Margaret Cho’s book is coming out next month, so I’ve got some work to do if I want to catch up.

Cheers,

Jasmine

I don’t give a light

I’m gonna make out all right

I’ve got a sweetheart hand

To put a stop to all that

Snipin’ and grousin’

PS: As always, there is no sex in the champagne room.

*playlist*

Willie Nelson – Somewhere Over The Rainbow; Percy Sledge – Love Me Tender; The Maytals – Pressure Drop; Monna Bell – Estaba Escrito;

*blog*

http://thesatyr.com/main.cfm?include=detail&storyid=58658

http://www.brunching.com/features/camptownraces.html

http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/1998/06/26feature.html

http://www.dancingpaul.com

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~ by Jasmine on March 28, 2001.

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