Found a place to call your own and a reason to stay there
Rabbit, rabbit! Man, June went faster than I thought.
Yesterday I spent the early afternoon with![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gaudior and Fox at Wilson Farm's 32nd Annual Strawberry Festival, where we sampled strawberry shortcake, strawberry milk, strawberry soup, strawberry relish, and a skewer of chocolate-dipped strawberries, none of which prevented Fox from absolutely going to town on a box of plain fresh-picked strawberries on the way home. He had had his face painted like a blue lion at the festival and looked innocently predatory, splashed with the gore of his prey. We got out of the parking lot just as the monsoons began. I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening with selkie and Rami and my godchild and an assortment of other queer parents and their children all hanging out in a turn-of-the-twentieth-century house in Arlington; there was pizza. Time did not actually melt like projector-stuck film now that Selkie and I have seen one another three times in a six-month interval, which bodes well for future interaction. I came home and spatch showed me Bugsy Malone (1976) because it was about to expire from Criterion and all I have to say right now is that the '70's were an amazing time in filmmaking.
Tonight I just finished eating the salad I have been desperately jonesing for all day—I'd previously eaten the last nectarine, all the artichoke hearts left in the refrigerator and half the jar of red peppers, and a fistful of dried kiwis, otherwise known as damn near all the fruits and vegetables we had in the house. (It was a narrow escape for the canned peaches.) Fortunately, Mortadella Head came to my rescue. Their Italian Cobb salad was exactly what I wanted, especially in this heat, and I am pleased to note that the totally-eat-something-bigger-than-your-head aesthetic so in evidence in their slices of pizza extends to their subs and salads as well. Rob ate perhaps three-quarters of his meatball sub and that was like two sandwiches for most people.
Tomorrow I will be attending this protest against ICE and the concentration camps which I do not want to call ours, but which are in my country, so it is my responsibility to do something about them. I hope it's a crowd.
Yesterday I spent the early afternoon with
gaudior and Fox at Wilson Farm's 32nd Annual Strawberry Festival, where we sampled strawberry shortcake, strawberry milk, strawberry soup, strawberry relish, and a skewer of chocolate-dipped strawberries, none of which prevented Fox from absolutely going to town on a box of plain fresh-picked strawberries on the way home. He had had his face painted like a blue lion at the festival and looked innocently predatory, splashed with the gore of his prey. We got out of the parking lot just as the monsoons began. I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening with selkie and Rami and my godchild and an assortment of other queer parents and their children all hanging out in a turn-of-the-twentieth-century house in Arlington; there was pizza. Time did not actually melt like projector-stuck film now that Selkie and I have seen one another three times in a six-month interval, which bodes well for future interaction. I came home and spatch showed me Bugsy Malone (1976) because it was about to expire from Criterion and all I have to say right now is that the '70's were an amazing time in filmmaking.Tonight I just finished eating the salad I have been desperately jonesing for all day—I'd previously eaten the last nectarine, all the artichoke hearts left in the refrigerator and half the jar of red peppers, and a fistful of dried kiwis, otherwise known as damn near all the fruits and vegetables we had in the house. (It was a narrow escape for the canned peaches.) Fortunately, Mortadella Head came to my rescue. Their Italian Cobb salad was exactly what I wanted, especially in this heat, and I am pleased to note that the totally-eat-something-bigger-than-your-head aesthetic so in evidence in their slices of pizza extends to their subs and salads as well. Rob ate perhaps three-quarters of his meatball sub and that was like two sandwiches for most people.
Tomorrow I will be attending this protest against ICE and the concentration camps which I do not want to call ours, but which are in my country, so it is my responsibility to do something about them. I hope it's a crowd.
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Honestly, I really enjoyed it. It would have died in a fire of twee if it once winked at the audience, but it really doesn't until the finale when it collapses into a bunch of kids having a pie fight and then that's such a weirdly appropriate ending you don't complain. Jodie Foster's great in it. (I'm not sure there needed to be quite so much Paul Williams on the soundtrack, though.)
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I loved that Bugsy says they need an army to get the splurge guns, and Leroy commiserates that there's "no armies around here," and then right on cue we get the Bonus Army. Aged on-average twelve, like everyone else in the film.
Also I just fell down a rabbit hole by looking up the child actor who played the small but memorable role of Baby Face ("Get Baby Face. I'm Baby Face. What am I saying?!") and it turns out he's Dexter Fletcher and he just directed Rocketman (2019). He was also in Caravaggio (1986). I'm delighted.