I have been drinking tequila, and I will not be spellchecking this entry, so deal. I love tequila! Tomorrow, I go see Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers for the seventy billionth time, holla if you can deal! Hell yeah.

 So it's like this. I spent the weekend doing laundry. Because my husband molts pants. Giant mounds of pants and undershirts. But I watched a lot of movies, too. Some, I rented from the Netflix, like The Young Girls of Rocehfort, which I love on an emotional and aesthetic level. La Deneveuve, there can BE no other! Cotillard, you may have an Oscar, but you will never be La Reine of France!

 And then there was the giant stinking turd, Stranger Than Fiction, that Jon rented. Fuck that shit. He just has a crush on Maggie Gyllenhal. I felt like Queen Latifah did through that whole sack of offal. White people. What's the problem? Put that turd back in the toilet!

I need mas tequila!

Then, I watched the Woodman's Melinda and Melinda while sewing up a top I knit that came out to short, and liked it. The movie, not the tope. I have to fix the goddamned top.

But then, there was the ultimate. My dream movie was on Showtime Saturday afternoon, I I thank the sweet Lord for it. God bless then Seventies, because I got to rewatch one of my all time favorite pieces of crap, The Eyes of Laura Mars!

 Oh God, the beauty and horror! Faye Dunaway, fresh off her Oscar for Network, but ready to step up into the Grand Guignol of Mommy Dearest. Nostrils flaring, every word overennunciated. A very young Tommy Lee Jones. Was he ever THAT young? Yes! The Seventies were No Country For Old Men. I said it, bitches!

 And believe me, he had the feathered hair to prove it! This qualude crapper had the most improbable thriller plot on the planet. But really, who cares? It was all an excuse to hang the most glorious 1970's style and music on. For every movie or TV show that tries to recreate the glory of 1977-78, I spit on you. You sad pretenders (I'm looking at you, Swingtown) will never get it right. You won't have the divine Maud Frizon boots La Dunaway sprawled her legs in during that ridiculous photo shoot in Columbus Circle. Oh wait, you didn't know, she's supposed to be a fashion photographer? Oh yes! With images actually taken by Helmut Newton! I could die! It's like my wayback machine orgasm come to life! What did Newton once famously say? "More oil on the girl!" Oh yeah.

Especially if it's Penzoil. Ah, the viscosity.

I have to fan myself just THINKING about it. Maybe it's the Cuervo talking? Maybe it's the Steely Dan I'm listening too? Yes, I'm that fucking OLD! Deal!

And I haven't even gotten into Brad Dourif in full Charlie Manson regalia as the red herring in the serial killer "plot," or Raul Julia (RIP) as the drunken ex-husband, or, saint's preserve me, Rene Auberjonois in a white caftan.

I think I just passed on to a higher plane. Yes, I am in nirvana, and I'm wearing Willie Wear. Did you GET that reference? You did if you're 90, like me!

You may ask, "Why, Tanya, when did you get to watch this cinema classic in your misspent youth?" Why, I'm glad you asked!

It was 1979, I was 13, spending the night at a Girl Scout friend's house, and I stayed up late since she had HBO and watched this and then a 2:00 a.m. showing of Cruising. Is that so wrong?

Please don't answer. Just get me some Maud Frizon boots and MAS TEQUILA.

Oh, and I watched The Piano again last night. Funny, I haven't seen it since it came out in 1993. Saw it at a film festival sitting next to Judith Crist and the late Playboy film critic Bruce Williamson. Oh, and Antonio Sabato Jr. And Dermot Mulroney. I think I shared a blueberry muffin with him. Yeah, I did. And now he's divorced from Catherine Keener, and Antonio is on that Circus of the Stars.

Damn. That was another life ago. Still a pretty movie. Sam Neill is underrated.

See, I still have some of my senses left.

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