Of course I spent the majority of my time indoors.
But! Before seeing Teeth at the IFI (several months after opening in the States, it finally received its release here), I nabbed a café table outside and sat and waited 20 minutes for service and eventually drank a pot of Earl Grey tea while attempting to write something of substance. The brain’s been clogged with emotional gobbledygook as of late, though, so I just wound up writing about my feelings, Dear Diary-style. If Judy Blume and I were best friends, she would’ve high-fived me right then and there and said something along the lines of, “You go girl!” Then we would’ve collaborated on the sequel to Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, and my impending fame would’ve been locked and sealed.
Speaking of adolescence and coming-of-age, I rather enjoyed Teeth. The only one in the cinema at first, I was looking forward to watching the film all by my lonesome, but then a lesbian couple showed up, and then some more women, and then a man—yes! a man!—sat right near me, and for some reason, I got all nervous and jittery and felt like telling him to move—“Em, excuse me, but could you sit somewhere else, because, see, given that this film will probably feature graphic depictions of castration…” (it does) “…and given that you might, perhaps, maybe react badly to it--I'm being assumptive I know, but seriously, see, I have problems watching that shit too—who in their right mind doesn’t?—and your anxiety will just feed into my anxiety and if you cringe I will feel like a bad person for being a woman sitting so close to you and, and, and wow I am WAY too neurotic for my own good so I’m just going to shut up and watch the film now okay?”—but I didn’t, because that just would have been stupid. I did, however, keep tabs on how often he laughed, which wasn’t often, but the man sitting in the back row was full of fits, and I reckon maybe laughed harder than anyone else in the cinema. Because Teeth actually is a dark comedy and a social satire and not really a horror film in the genre-specific sense (and definitely not in the way it was marketed), and most of the cringe-worthy scenes are balanced with a good amount of humor, so you’re laughing while you’re disgusted and mortified and crying because you’re still laughing, sometimes really, really hard.
[This is where the "I DON'T HATE MEN!" rant was. It was boring and eye roll-inducing and begging to be erased.]
Okay. Back to the weather. A friend of mine once wrote a play called Talking Shit About A Pretty Sunset. One beautiful discovery about Dublin was learning that during the summer (or at least for now), the sun fully sets around eleven o’clock. That means while I’m spending Friday night confined to my room, eating bowls of teriyaki rice, drinking vodka and orange juice, and perusing music blogs for hours on end, I can watch the sun sink below the Georgian architecture outside my window. Someone, please, tell me how it’s possible to talk shit about this pretty sunset:
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