Friday Night Finally

My plan to update yesterday was thwarted when I arrived home from work. My roommate was in a lousy mood, fretting over money and it dampened my journaling fire, so off to bed I went.

On Friday, I spent the evening with antarcticlust and it was enjoyable by all measures, tones and textures of the word.

We saw the heavily-hyped and tabloid-foddered Mr. & Mrs. Smith starring Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. The movie is hilarious, which detracts nothing from the action. Brad and Angie's banter is witty, clever and believable; their chemistry is intense. Vince Vaughn, however, steals almost ever scene he's in. Beware theatre goers: This is a laugh-out-loud movie. It's much better than I anticipated and am very pleased it is not a Gigli.

Afterwards, we dined and drank at Brocach Irish Pub. Neither of us had been there before and were warned it was "pretentious." Well, pretentious means claiming or demanding a position of distinction or merit, especially when unjustified. Well, the warning was unfounded. The food was terrific, the beer delightful, yet I feel I must issue yet another warning: the appetizers are MASSIVE. antarcticlust ordered what we thought was a side of fries, but noooooo! This plate of fries, smothered in cheese, tomatoes and bacon (warning to the vegetarians) and, as we found out from our waiter, normally feeds a group of four to six. Otherwise, everything was immaculate and the ambiance pleasant. Any claims of merit are quite justified.

And such concludes Friday, dear reader, as I arrived at work only a measly fifteen minutes late.

Dream Theatre Intercourse

Yesterday, I had a very unconventional dream, for me anyway. Rarely do I have dreams with sexual content, and I stress rarely. Even at the height of my puberty-driven adolescence, I never had a dream containing sexual intercourse. (God, I hate the clinical sound of that, so let me rephrase.) No fucking, nor love-making; no sex. A few kisses or caresses, an almost, and a not-quite, but only once or twice, in my entire repertoire of Dream Theatre, have I actually had sex.

So, with that prefaced, yesterday, I dreamt I had sex with Angelina Jolie. This also marks the first time I've bedded a celebrity in DreamLand. Now, I know what you're thinking; I had just seen Mr. & Mrs. Smith, and yes, I agree that is quite possibly where my mind got the image. However, in the dream, it wasn't her, or at least, I didn't realize it was her. It was like an old friend, just someone I knew and we were talking, about life, love, spirituality. We were both in a sort of melancholic mood, very introspective, so it wasn't overzealous, over-acted Hollywood sex, nor debauched, pornographic oh-my-god-fuck-me sex. It wasn't frenzied, back-scratching, blood-from-bitten lips sex, or tender, candle-lit lovemaking, nor was it a tantrically transcendent and feverish melding of two-into-one. It was the sex of former lovers seeking an escape, a retreat into something warm and familiar, something comfortable. It was the sex of abandon, not wild, but obliviating. It was a release, it was giving in, a giving up, anything to feel something other than despondent loneliness. This was an act of rebellion, a morning star birthed from an emotional blackhole.