Unsimulated
August 30, 2004
In retrospect, maybe 11:15 AM is too early in the morning to watch Vincent Gallo get a blow job from Chloe Sevigny on the big screen. That's what time Ali and I met on Sunday morning to see The Brown Bunny.
"Don't kill yourself," Ali said as I ran, huffing and puffing, to where she stood, just outside the theater doors.
“Sorry," I said. "The subway…”
Aside from being late, the subway was also jam-packed with sign-carrying protesters on their way to Madison Square Garden to protest George Bush’s nomination at the Republican National Convention. I had to struggle through the crowded car, and was nearly crushed by the train's closing doors.
As a result, we missed the first few minutes of the film, but I don't think Ali cared. She hated the movie.
"What did you think?" she asked as we left.
"I kind of liked it."
"You did? Oh my god, what did you like about it? Did it turn you on? I mean, that blow job scene made me feel gross.”
"No. I didn't like it because of the blow job scene. Honestly, that was my least favorite part. I don't know. I enjoy hypnotic movies with minimal storylines. I wish that I didn't because it makes me come off like a pseudo-intellectual art-geek, but I like that kind of thing. I just do."
The movie was a vanity project. a hopelessly self-indulgent piece of "art." But something about it was mesmerizing. Quiet and pretty, like one of my all-time favorites, another love-it-or-hate-it notoriously panned film, Zabriskie Point. We’ll see how history remembers The Brown Bunny. It will likely be for the blow job scene. A footnote in a film school textbook.
After the movie, we ate brunch, and then Ali said, "Let's sit in the park and make fun of the hair-dos."
But I couldn’t linger. I had to go to a birthday party for the wife of my sometime boss. "Wana come?" I asked.”
“No."
"Free food and drinks."
"No, really, I don't want to."
I described the restaurant and how delicious the food would be, and stressed again that it was all free. But Ali is gainfully employed and can easily afford her own food, so there was little else I could say. But I tried.
"Please don't make me go, “she said.
“I’m not trying to make you; I'm trying to persuade you."
“Well, stop, because you're not going to persuade me. Office parties are my worst nightmare."
“But it’s not an office party; it's a birthday party."
"Drop it.’
I did, and after walking Ali to the subway, I went to the party alone. It was okay. It would’ve been more fun if she had come with me, though. More fun for me, at least.
