The Skunkeye Consumer Guide

The mysterious bug is gone!

If you anticipate getting sick this season, I highly recommend this strain of flu.

1. It DOESN"T turn into a cold.
2. The feverish dreams were like REALLY WILD movies.
3. The bug gives you an EXCUSE not to be social (an added bonus for holidays with the family).
4. I didn’t SPEND barely any money (no Black Friday for me).
5. I actually LOST weight this Thanksgiving weekend – my gut has taken a vacation!

The drawbacks are that it can get kind of messy and violent and you find yourself prone to uncontrollable crying jags watching Love, Actually alone on TV on a Saturday night.

Ay, I’m still ill with the mysterious bug but I have been making it out into the cruel world to enjoy the Godard series at the National Gallery. I opted out of last weekend’s launch thinking I’ve seen A Bout De Souffle and Bande A Part to death, and was also loathe to return to my workplace’s vicinity in the downtime hours.

Honestly, I was a bit tard in seeing Mépris – my first full-on encounter was Martin Scorsese’s 1997 cleaned-up print (which, unfortunately the National Gallery did not screen). Nonetheless, I’d forgotten how poignant the film is – Godard, and breathtaking Bardot (her best performance I’ve ever seen), capture perfectly that moment when love and trust goes wrong – a simple gesture spells betrayal. The opening scene is probably the most devastatingly sexy and loving montage on film ever. The knowing audience just wants to clock Michel Piccoli’s Paul for encouraging his beautiful wife to get into that ill-fated red Alfa Romeo with the “That American” producer, played with brilliant smarminess by Jack Palance.

Don’t let your girl get into that car dammit!
Heartbreaking.

Bardot, B-movie film references, back lots of Cinecitta, uber-hip Rome apartment, an amazing villa in Capri, a retropolation of The Odyssey, and Fritz Lang’s pregnant presence – it doesn’t get better than this! Oh, and the aching Georges Delerue orchestration too!

Godard’s radical study-in-sketches, 1966’s black & white Masculin, féminin: 15 faits précis, doesn’t carry near the emotional weight for me, but is nonetheless compelling. Brigitte Bardot even makes a brief, mischievous cameo. If there were a Bible for the Hip this film would be Jean-Luc 3.15. The film’s young lovers, the “children of Marx and Coca-Cola,” sexily interview each other over cappuccino and cigarettes on a range of subjects from birth control to the Vietnam War. Yeah, to be young, fashionable and political in Paris!

The draw for me with this film is admittedly rooted in my early childhood.

Chantal Goya.

While recently helping my folks move back in to the DC residence after some years overseas I uncovered the first single I ever owned. I have no idea where I earned the francs and perhaps some patron generously bought it for me – but there it was – in all its glory – Chantal Goya’s 45 “Allons Chanter Avec Mickey.” In retrospect, obviously it’s a really insipid tune – something about singing along with Mickey & Minnie Mouse and “tous les couleurs des les peintures” – and this is years, dating myself, before EuroDisney; well, it captured my young imagination and I developed one of my first crushes. I was a lost, little expat kid living in Paris, mind you. Sadly, I haven’t followed Chantal Goya’s career since, but a cursory search indicates that her post “Mickey” effort yielded a lot of children’s music-related material.

At any rate, Chantal Goya is damn sexy – her angular pageboy and cheekbones, the detached winsomeness - as the aspiring pop-singer in Masculin-Feminim! And April March fans should note that Ms. Goya has always decidedly been her point of reference.

Yarg, I dunno if I can make this afternoon’s NGA Godard offering, 2 ou 3 choses que je sais d'elle. Actually, from what I remember its kinda dullish except for a few scenes – housewife deciding to turn tricks, yeah, Paris is a lady - and maybe I’ve had my fill for now.

I'm suffering from what I hope is just a flu but I decided to come into work. I've got things to catch up on and besides I need the money – I even decided not to go to the Beach House with my family because finances are so tight! At any rate, its quiet at the office today since many people are still celebrating Thanksgiving.

On Wednesday evening coming home from Georgetown I started to get the chills and feel queasy. Sure enough when the minute I walked through my front door I became violently ill and had pains and fevers all night long. I'm notoriously hot-blooded and never get cold but I had to wrap myself in every blanket I could find. I thought it might have been food-poisoning from the end of Ramadan celebrations the Indonesians hosted – suspect satay perhaps? But I was able to eat and keep down food yesterday/Thanksgiving (albeit small portions and I still don't have an appetite) and no one else at that lunch that I've queried became ill. And the flu-like symptoms haven't developed into a full-on cold like they usually do so I just dunno what bug I got…

At any rate, right before I came down with the mysterious illness I saw the delightful The Incredibles. I cannot recommend this masterpiece highly enough. I'm not a huge Disney/Pixar fan at all but that Brad Bird conceived the film was appealing to me – The Iron Giant (created old school animation style and buried, ironically, in the box office by Pixar's instant mass popularity - I believe it was one of those bug movies) is a real tour-de-force and really quite poignant. The Incredibles is bursting with heart, amazingly rendered, and the attention to detail - especially the mid-century elements - is nirvana for a geek like me. Bird has created a marvelous quasi-Cold War universe filled with memorable, fully realized, and engaging characters – Edna Mode is genius! Also, it is one of the most sharply, well written films I've seen in a long, long time. The afternoon matinee audience applauded at the end – that's how good it is!

And by all means stick around through the credits!

Yesterday, Thanksgiving Day, I was just going to stay in bed until I had to head out for The Dinner, but my house was noisy - Housemate D returned early in the morning after a night out, no doubt still hopped on chemicals, and decided to rearrange all the furniture on his level of the house and crank his crappy circuit noize upstairs, followed by a bombastic blasting of the dreaded The Nutcracker Suite. Fuck it ain't even Chritmas yet. And we're talking well before 9 am here. Thanks, D, you know I always tiptoe when you're sleeping it off - how 'bout letting those who fall ill through unsolicited, natural means get some morning rest?

Since I had to venture out into the cold and rain to get flu medicine anyway I found refuge and caught an early show of Kinsey at Dupont. The film is very well acted but I dozed off at the denouement, just as things started to unravel for Kinsey and company. The McCarthyism element of the film actually makes Kinsey an interesting companion piece to The Incredibles. Yikes! Must be the flu medication talking!

Last week I survived two "chick flicks," Bridget Jones: the Edge of Reason and the Alfie remake, which I am only writing about as a warning not to see!

Perhaps I was Beyond the Edge of Reason when I caught the new Bridget Jones. Actually, I was Uptown, recovering from a rigorous dental work session and, seeking a diversion in the dark as my gums bled, the film was the most convenient option. The minute the film started I instantly recalled how much I hated the first film. I remembered how much I was disgusted by Rene Zellweger's squinty-eyed and unfunny performance (there's tons of more than capable UK actresses who could have filled the role with more ease and comedy – I don't give a shit how many pound she had to put on for the role!). Some guests left copies of Helen Fielding's books at the Beach House several years ago and I read them – quite possibly sun-stroked state of mind. The first book was a light diversion but the sequel was craptacular and so is the movie. It should be called Bridget Jones: Beyond the Edge of a Plausible Plot. The whole mess was so damn forced! The only thing I halfway liked about the film was Hugh Grant – I like it when he plays nasty.

The "Cool Britania" vibe of Bridget Jones doesn't really jive post-millennium. The same can be said of Alfie, one of the most pointless and irrelevant remakes I have ever seen! The 1966 classic was a biting portrait of post-war, swinging London – Michael Caine's free wheeling, misogynistic, and, beneath the surface, "angry young man," was a telling reflection of times. At the core of the original Alfie were generation specific and hot button issues of class, abortion, and female empowerment – which have little currency in the faux and flashy 21st century New York City of the remake. So, instead, we get a hollow film stylized beyond redemption. I don't know what the producers were thinking with this re-envisioning of Alfie except for as a vehicle to transition Jude Law into leading man status (it fails) or as fodder for the Sex & the City audiences. My god it was so tedious – the only pleasure I got was Sienna Miller's channeling, well, at least on a superficial level, of Julie Christie in her tragic party girl mode– I'm a sucker for that kind of thing. I knew what I was getting into when I let MJ cajole me into seeing the new Alfie – she really wanted to see it for some reason; afterwards, at least I had her agreement that she had been fairly warned by me.

Uh oh, stomach is acting up again... ***Um, is it just me - but is Typepad kinda screwy today...hard to post without things looking garbled. I dunno about all these new features, I kinda was happy with it the old way.****

I’ve been in major house-cleaning mode this past weekend, after weeks of being distracted, away, and busy with other events, and you gotta believe Sharon Tandy has been a groovin’ companion as I vacumn, Swifter™, and Fabreeze™ my way through, making order of the accumulated neglect in Chez Skunkeye.

One of the latest of my debt-inducing "impulse" import purchases, the recently released compilation You Gotta Belive It’s… Sharon Tandy, depending on the mood, is a great escapist folly or truly an essential acquisition.

Shy suburban South African funky Jew songbird Sharon Tandy (nee Finkelstein) was swept to swinging London in 1964 by her charismatic svengali mixed-race “husband”/producer Frank Fenter and enjoyed a brief but prolific recording career until 1970, when disenchanted with the scene, she retreated back to Johannesburg and into obscurity. Tandy never made a significant dent in the music charts but was well respected in the music industry; in 1967 she was sent to Memphis to work with the revered Stax team, becoming the first European-based artist to record at the label’s legendary East McLemore Avenue studio. These historical sessions, several featuring the musicianship of the late Isaac Hayes, are included and lovingly re-mastered on this impressive Big Beat-issued collection, which gathers for the first time, all of Tandy’s single’s and B-sides, and includes twenty pages of quality liner notes and an illuminating essay from Tandy herself.

Sharon Tandy’s vocal style takes a certain nuance to categorize – her spirited delivery stands out from the usual “dolly” birds from that era in British pop; I guess, using the obvious references, she comes off as an appealing and soulful bridge between Dusty Springfield and Julie Driscoll (best known to US audiences as the voice of Absolutely Fabulous’ theme song, a (re-)rendition of Dylan’s “This Wheels on Fire.”). The vast range of the material on this collection - blue-eyed soul, breathy ballads, psych rock - reveals that Tandy’s talents were beyond category, rock-solid but malleable, and thus hard to pin-point and market to the tastes of the times.

In fact, in a tragic twist of fate, Tandy famously was offered and denied the vocals to “Alfie” after Cilla Black turned the gig down only to change her mind at the last minute.

I was first introduced to the wonders of Sharon Tandy when I experienced her cool delivery of “Hold On,” which is considered somewhat of an anthem among Mod classicists. Man, can you imagine being a teen circa 1967 and hearing that for the first time on the radio – what a hook! Tandy’s heart-felt, grinding take on the classic “Our Day Will Come” has become essential to me, and I can’t get that “Hurry Hurry Choo Choo” out of my head no matter how I try to-to and what I do-do. And I’ll reconcile with that forced Grace Slick intonation of the psychedlic “Daughter of the Sun,” because it is just that kind of cool. In terms of the material, there are a few diamonds and plenty of rhinestones in this retrospective, but what more than rises to the occasion is Tandy’s voice and talent, and also the carefree, revolutionary spirit of the era. 26 tracks of hit or miss singles but its all bliss. This collection is also worth owning also for Tandy’s collaborations with the legendary Poldydor house band, the Fleur De Lys – actually they back her on most of the tracks. Awesome musicianship.

And the perfect house-cleaning soundtrack.

My big Wednesday afternoon/evening post-work/post-wedding-bonanza plan was to catch Tarnation (which I have been dying to see!) and afterwards make some connections with my Icelandic heritage with artist Olafur Eliasson’s lecture at the Hirshhorn.

As I expected, Jonathan Caouette’s highly personal and revolutionary documentary blew me away! And I must say, after these intense weeks with my family, it was refreshing to get immersed in someone else’s folks and drama and realize that my own deal ain’t so screwed up.

Not that it could possibly come close to this saga...

Caouette and I are roughly the same age, and indeed many of the popular culture touchstones – music, television, the movies – that he refers to in his production, resonate with me. Especially as someone who also grew up in the world as a certain sort of “artistic” type, feeling more than a bit alienated from his environment. Believe me, I could totally relate to the evolution of "period" haircuts and fashion missteps. And also the visual and information frenzy and overload of the film, which in I guess in a sort of desperate idealization, reflects the more creative, energetic bent of my generation. Now, I always imagined Texas to be this creatively-stifling place to experience high school, but can you imagine Young Jonathan directed and publicly staged in the auditorium an interpretation of David Lynch’s “Blue Velvet” using lip-synched Marianne Faithful songs as the narrative? Ay… At my school, Jonathan would have been a great guy to have as a collaborator and friend.

As his mother and the poignant focal point of Tarnation, Renee LeBlanc, struggles to enunciate later in the film, the kid has got “chutzpah.”

And for whatever reason, Caoutte, is a natural-born performer and auteur. The filmmaker and subject is attractive and charming; he has no reservations, and is quite aggressive, about laying it all out for the world to see. Despite a tumultuous and unstable upbringing, by anyone’s standards, he nonetheless had access to audio/video recording equipment - Super-8, Betamax, VHS, Hi-8 and Mini-DV - and miraculously was able to preserve and hold on to all the documentation - photographs, home movies, audio recordings, video diaries, and answering machine messages-… to later be edited and spliced together, famously, on some kind of Apple home computer film editing software (total budget: $218.32) and fortuitously engaging the attention and support of obvious soul mates and sponsors (and eventual producers) John Cameron Mitchell (Hedwig) and Gus Van Sant.- well, it must be some kind of divine pre-ordination. Young Jonathan’s early bedroom/bathroom video diaries/performances are uncanny and reveal a wise and frightful understanding and reflection of the grown-ups he might have faced in his foster home years.

His leisurely and unflinching video footage of his grandmother at her weaker and more candid moments reveal a prodigious documentary maker. I can’t imagine any family member or friend allowing a camera to record such private vulnerability – this goes beyond your conventional home movies, folks! Clearly a natural at his medium, Cauoutte, at a very young age, is able to disarm and capture on film the charming but difficult grandma Rosemary, struggling with her dentures and often seemingly drunk, and let it play out with a naturalness, sensitivity, and honesty that even the most seasoned of filmmakers could only aspire to. Maybe she realized one day she would become famous in his hands! (Which, I guess Rosemary is now – this property is hot!)

Caouette’s childhood and teenage years are massively messed-up but the kid nonetheless manages to find and develop his vocation and voice early, and after twenty-odd years of survival and documentation, the culmination is a most breathtaking and unflinching portrait of American life. A kind of US – ADD.

A synopsis of Tarnation, from the film’s press materials:

The film begins with the early history of Caouette’s family. His grandparents, Adolph and Rosemary, were married in 1951 and experienced a middle-class life in a Houston suburb. But their idyllic early years quickly disintegrate after they opt to incarcerate their beauty-queen daughter Renee, who undergoes shock therapy after a suspected mental condition is diagnosed. Renee’s personality is severely compromised after two years of treatment, resulting in a tortured life of mental illness, physical abuse, and a seemingly endless series of hospitalizations. Her saving grace arrives in the form of her son, Jonathan, born in 1972. As Jonathan grows up on camera over a two-decade span, he forges an unbreakable, often heartbreaking bond with Renee, discovering along the way his own personal difficulty - depersonalization, an affliction involving feelings of detachment from one’s own body or thoughts. Using filmmaking and self-documentation as a means of escape and salvation, Jonathan eludes his harsh existence through the safe, controlled world of cinema and make-believe. He becomes enthralled with underground movies, musical theatre and alternative gay culture, and yearns for the day when he can escape Texas and make a life of his own. As a young adult Jonathan migrates to New York City and finds a secure, loving home with boyfriend David Sanin Paz. His relationship with Renee grows even deeper after a lithium overdose requires sacrifice, compassion and an outpouring of love.

Tonight over a quick “catch-up” phone conversation with my mother I was trying to brief Tarnation in a nutshell and recommend it. Admittedly there’s no way around selling this important film without a synopsis coming off as a downer. She’s more keen on Ray - apparently we have some family connection to the producer.

There’s this painfully awful, extended moment late in the film, when Cauoette records Renee, brain-damaged after a lithium overdose, riffing with a pumpkin, infantile, clearly deranged. And one thinks back to the earlier footage of her as an arresting dark beauty who could have gone wherever she wanted in this world after her flower-child phase. In another time or circumstance. But for a fall and a misdiagnosis and bad advice from a doctor Renee was given numerous shock treatment and multiple institution confinements. I somehow believe similar fates were not uncommon in my parent’s generation. Especially if one were a bit “different.”

The closing scene of Tarnation seemed a bit forced and not quite genuine to me, as if Jonathan Cauoette felt the need to wrap up things somewhat tidily and thematically as a documentary that has come full-circle (informed cineastes know he has already developed a follow-up documentary about his maybe (?) equally as complex grandfather Adolph). The audience is well-acquainted with his dramatic flair and when he expresses tearfully (in a familiar staging as his adolescent videos) that his big fear is that he will end up in a similar regressive mental state as his mother Renee, we’re like, “okay, now you’re pushing it.”

To me that sort of undermines what Cauoette has demonstrated throughout his elaborate and engaging presentation of his personal history; to audiences it is apparent that he has more than stepped up to the plate – and had to grow up - in taking care of his problematic family and has demonstrated that he is more than equipped to deal with life and is a genuine survivor (not to mention talent). And despite his miserable youth and “detachment disorder,” it is very well apparent that the filmmaker, given his sacrifices for his family, care for his mother, and the devotion of his long-term partner, knows how to love and is very much loved in return.

So, the film ran longer than I expected and the line for the lecture at the Hirshhorn was out of control so I missed the Olafur Eliasson talk. Which is sad since I’m a huge fan of his work, an art snob, and Icelandic. I did watch America’s Top Model where they went to Tokyo tonight and that was also some brilliantly marketed pop culture mess but I won’t get into that …

The Carnival is Over...

In the immortal words and music of Dusty’s big brother, Tom Springfield….

How it breaks my heart to leave you/ Now the carnival has gone…

My mother blurted on Wednesday evening at dinner that this is very “bittersweet time.” My grandmother was clearly not able to attend any of the events. Things are even more uncertain, scarier in the world after this election. And although I know I’m not losing a sister, and my folks aren’t losing a daughter, its now “official” and she is moving on to new stage in life.

I’m still recovering from this endless caravan of festivities, which I guess, kicked off officially Thursday evening. Needless to see say it was all lovely. And very emotional. A cast of hundreds, family and friends came from all over the world, which was wonderful - but I have to admit I have been running solely off of adrenaline with all the logistics and heightenedness. Food? Too many things and people to take of – well, at least I looked relatively skinny in the tux.

Well, if anything can be called a true “Washington wedding” – this was it in the best way possible. Weather was unkind for the rehearsal dinner but it was glorious Saturday for the ceremony in Georgetown and the reception right on Dupont Circle. Truly spectacular! And although the merged families run a very timely “Red/Blue” polarity, I’m proud and pleased to say I now have a wonderful group of new brothers and sisters in my life, not to mention lovely in-laws, whom I adore.

(I just don’t want to see my sister knocked up for the next 10-15 years is all! And I certainly don’t want guns around the future nieces and nephews!)

I thought I had it all together, running around, taking care of things and guests – but the minute my little sister – looking so radiant – walked down the aisle… well, I lost it completely and the tears would not stop.

Gotta give the big brother a break!

Recovered from my welling up soon enough but it was embarrassing being a groomsman up front in the chapel for all to see. At any rate, made it through the rest of the endless festivities but now I am beat beyond belief.

Right now I’m ready to move on to some semblance of “regular” life.

I’m Eloping!

Or, rather, that will be my preferred option if and when the time comes.

My sister’s wedding is threatening to eat the planet whole. Anyway, it will be all over this weekend.

And it will be beautiful.

Right now I’m crazy busy and hope to be back in blog business next week.

Well, many of us are feeling a bit numb today – I pretty much pulled an all-nighter at work – and still processing things. The fug of it all is overwhelming. The metro this morning was palpably forlorn and while folks at work are proud of their hard work in covering the elections, there is a certain silence in our halls. Many bloggers are expressing their sentiments all over the “internets” and I’ve been surprised by how accepting the overall tone has been. I guess people are tired and need to regroup and the more reactive stuff will come later. It has been, as far as much as we can tell now, a fair election. Anyway, this site has never and will never be a political blog, so instead…

I opted to take a long lunch and clear my head and try to find solace at an exhibit the National Gallery. It may seem bleak out there right now, but at least we still have the right to appreciate art.

On the surface, All the Mighty World: The Photographs of Roger Fenton, 1852 – 1860, might seem rather stodgy and just the kind of mainstream show this administration might appreciate. But Fenton’s work is undeniably beautiful and his technique and subject matter are actually quite complex. And I achieved my goal of getting blissfully lost in the exhibit.

Photography has never been my area of expertise. I first encountered Fenton’s work in college as a bratty Edward Said-nazi; the photographer's staged “harem” tableaux were a footnote in my Oreintalism studies. I was unaware of Fenton’s status as the “First War Photographer” (is that something like Janice Dickerson, “The World’s First Supermodel”?). At any rate, his 150-year old Crimean War photographs could very have been taken in contemporary Iraq. Fenton’s photos of the British Museum collection are a precursor to the work of contemporary German photographer Thomas Struth ,who is best known for his documents of the interior world of museums, and has long been one of my favorites. There is much food for thought in this exhibit.

That many of Fenton’s photographs are of churches and abbeys just brings home the notion of the museum as my “church.” I found great spirituality in his photos of rugged pastoral Wales. I can’t find a reproduction online, but one of his most famous photos, “The Long Walk, Windsor” is a minimalist study of a crsip tree-lined path leading up to and disappering into an uncertain, looming, and foggy sky.

It seems like a Long Walk indeed today.

(Pictured, The Target.)

VOTE!

I voted earlier this morning. I highly recommend it – it will make you feel good.
We’ll see how I feel this time tomorrow – I’ll probably be pulling an all-nighter at work. I just hope we’ll be running this banner on our site!

I had a fantastic weekend. Friday night I saw Alexander Payne’s Sideways, which was delightful and just about the most all-around perfect film I’ve seen in a while. Those of us who experienced Paul Giamatti's Harvey Peckar in American Splendor - well, his nuanced performance is hardly a revelation. (Giamatti's aunt -sister of the late baseball commissioner and president of Yale - by the way, is a very close family friend, and she’s truly a character.)
I was mostly pleased that three of my favorite actors - Thomas Haden Church, Sandra Oh, and Virginia Madsen - were given the opportunity to shine in fully fleshed-out and well-written roles. What excellent and inspired casting! Thomas Haden Church has always cracked me up - audiences might recall him from his supporting role as an airplane mechanic on NBC's Wings or even Fox's short lived Ned & Stacey - in which dreadful Debra Messing played an early incarnation of "Grace." I dig his droll, deadpan, and perfectly-timed delivery. I’ve enjoyed Sandra Oh (Payne's wife by the way in a few indies, that Showtime sports agent series, and of course in that Diane Lane Tuscan Sun movie. . Speaking of Diane Lane, I think we've found this year's model in Virginia Madsen. Living in the tropical third world, one winds up in the local air-conditioned movie theaters to escape the heat and, hence, watches a lot of B-movies that would otherwise be straight to video in the US. So I've seen TONS of Vrginia Madsen and have always been struck by a vulnerability, intelligence, and soulfulness swimming beneath the surface. So thank you Alexander Payne for the vision and lets hope Virginia Madsen gets some best supporting actress nods and she gets a lot of fine acting gigs. And I hope she doesn't get all skinny and botox on us. I'm all for real woman.

For some odd reason I got invited to a lot of Halloween bashes this year. My party stamina ain’t what it used to be so I had to skip a few, unfortunately, including a Zombie Prom and late night thing at my best friend from junior high’s granola group house. MJ came over Saturday for a weekend of pampering at Chez Skunkeye before she leaves for Spain. I had a fancy dinner planned for her but unfortunately Housemate D had a bunch of his bitchy rice queen friends over. So I had to cook feast for MJ in advance and we had to eat in my study. Also, his drug buddy’s truck is still in our parking space (it was supposed to three weeks- its been now almost seven months!) and parking was a NIGHTMARE so I got a little pissy with him in front of his guests. Oh well, I apologized later even though I didn’t have to.

I wasn’t going to dress up but MJ had an Imelda Marcos get-up prepared. I was going go as a communist insurgent and wear a Mao get up with a cap (courtesy Shanghai Tang). I opted to recycle my old platinum wig and milk the Andy Warhol thing once again. Our logic was that Andy and Imelda used to play together at Studio 54 and we were in a decadent groove. And its funny because later on in the evening we met a Diane Von Furstenburg! Any ways we had a blast and I met a lot of fun, cool people, including a girl dressed as replicant Pris/Daryl Hannah in Blade Runner. So hot.

Sunday morning we met my mom in Georgetown for Mass at Holy Trinity (where my sister is getting hitched on the 13th!) and then we all had masarap Filipino brunch at Little Quiapo. What a beautiful Autumn day! I watched the game with my grandmother at her hospice (Pops had seats at the game!) and in the evening I caught the best made-for-TV movie ever with hot Annabella Sciorra, Ellen Burstyn, and Dominique Swain - Madam's Family: The Truth About Canal Street Brothel.