So how’s Ryan feeling?
Oh, pretty good, I think.
How can you tell?
Heard a rumor that he’s gonna write a weekend update blog.
So that means he’s OK?
You wanna read more of than navel-gazing BS from last week?
Um, no.
Good.
So what should we do now?
You know. The same. Wait.
Dude, I seriously doubt Godot’s showing up anytime today.
**********
Alrighty, we’ve got my monthly Beckett quote out of the way, onto bigger and better things. Ahh yes. My weekend. Better than yours? Who’s to say? I ain’t about judgement. All about the love here. And the benjamins. Can’t forget those.
Friday:
Had to day off. Plenty of time to finally run errands. Take my time at the gym. Pay some bills. Do all those things which I never seem to have enough time for the rest of the weekdays of my life.
So I sat on my booty, instant messaging or watching TV. Totally. Awesome.
Ended up hosting a little Blogger Drinking Night here, with Megan and Erin. Megan, you long-time readers will recall, met me at my cousin’s wedding rehearsal afterparty, and Erin, well, turns out to be the sister of a girl who in 6th grade had a crush on me. Thus, we’ve proven, once again, that no more where I go, no matter what I do, I can'’ put anything totally incriminating on this blog, cuz someone who shouldn’t see it will see it.
*is reminded of the pole dancing pictures*
Oh bugger.
Something else happened on Friday night as well, long after I had fallen asleep. I didn’t find out about it until Saturday, though. Will get to it shortly.
Saturday:
Ouch. In my collegiate years, a 6-pack in one night is what we would call “a warm up”. Now it’s called, “Hey, Stupid, It’s the Morning After, I’m your Head, and I’m Right Pissed Off, and Oddly English”. But, I’d done nothing to improve my physical appearance and/or stamina the day before, so it’s off to the gym I go, with Bass Ale still partially on my breath.
Sometimes, working out just feels great. I mean, yea, lifting massive amount of weight is never a picnic for me, but I make it through the sets, generally feel OK during the workout, and leave the gym with a sense of accomplishment. Not a “Hey, check it, I just built the Pyramids working at home in my spare time” type of accomplishment, but still. I feel OK.
Saturday was not one of those days. More along the lines of “Dear Lord, Let Me Make It Through One Set More of Butterfly Curls, O Please, Jeff, the God of Dumbbells”. Still sore as we type. Not good times. Utterly painful times.
So I get home, and lo, voicemail. I figured someone had called while I was at the gym, but quickly realized that this call had come in some time the night before.
Now, to decipher what’s about to be typed, know that it’s as close as I could come to a transcription, I didn’t type it all out, and anything in parentheticals is a staccato reinforcement of the major motifs by a person not actually on the phone, but in fact nearby. Ready? OK, this is what I heard.
“Ryan McGee (McGee!)…take a moment (A MOMENT) and realize (realize) you are being drunk dialed (tada!) by the one and only Megan and Angela…we are drunk dialing (drunk dialing) you from 2nd Avenue…and we not only wanna be blogged (oh yea), but also want you to know when you get your ass to NYC, you are gonna have the best time ever, it’s just gonna be insane (woooooooooo)…cuz we are happening, hot, sweet girls who will show you how to kick it New York style…(kick it)…she said kick it (look at me) look at her!”
It’s worth noting at this point that Megan and Angela are two of the three of the NYC UNICEF Triumvirate that I saw/met the last time I was in New York City. I mention this both to tell you who they are and to give context to the following, said by Angela after a phone switch. . The ladies, you see, really want to be blogged. They feel it’s their God given right. After all, they sacrifice valuable work time to read my witticisms. Thus, I give you the following from Angela, in what may be the Greatest Praise of This Blog Ever.
“Seriously…I could be handing a kid a biscuit, and instead I’m reading your blog.”
Outstanding. Here you go, ladies, you’ve been blogged. If anyone else wants to be mentioned, drunk dialing is almost a guaranteed method of success.
Would be hard to top that, but lo, “Pirates of the Caribbean” did. I saw it that night with two coworkers and their spouses. Normally, people might feel like the fifth wheel, but after that voice mail, ain’t nothing gonna break-a my stride, nobody gonna slow me down, oh no, I got to keep on movin’. Plus, nobody was licking anyone else, so the PDA factor was minimal.
One paragraph review: See it. Like, now. Second-best movie of the summer, behind “X2” which I have an utter weakness for. Johnny Depp is every bit the Acting God you’ve read about. And Kiera Knightley. Sweet Jeebus. Hi. Wuv you. Orlando even got to make a funny. Excellent, excellent movie. So good you actually forget how complicated it must have been to make. Also? At one point, the British navy busts out a round of "Huzzah!" Four stars for that alone.
Third best movie of the summer? Funny you should ask.
Sunday:
“Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines”.
Trust me; I’m as shocked as you are.
Another co-worker had been dying to see this, and I wasn’t opposed to it, but wouldn’t activiely seek people out to go with me. Figured it would hit a second-run theatre and, in a moment of desperation and boredom, drop $5. Well, I only had to drop $6 today to see it in surround sound, which is definitely the way to see it. The movie follows an Ibsenian/Chekhovian logic: namely, if the movie shows you an object, trust that eventually it will be blown to utter shit.
I’m all about Arnie in this role. I’m all about incredible car chases (sorry, the first car chase in this movie outshines the one in “The Matrix: Reloaded”). I’m all about a movie that dares to have an ending like this. (I wouldn’t dare give it away, but definitely a surprise. Both from a “I can’t believe I didn’t see it coming” to “I can’t believe they actually got this ending approved” perspective.) Seriously. It completely surprised me. Best surprise of the summer.
Then I had a bizarre conversation about how "Say Anything" might have been written in 2003 with Shannon, the content of which can be found here. (I still say "Say Anything" is not a "chick flick", mostly because I'd classify it as "exceedingly brilliant and occasionally too painful to watch".)
And now…well, typing to you. I’ll be damned if the Carson Daly roast will get in the way of delivering the goods to my readers, but especially to my hunnies in UNICEF. Much love, in the gangsta way.