cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (jack skellington)

Last night, over candlelit dinner, Tweetie suggested we end the evening with a Christmas movie. Since Fast and Furious 6 just became available for rent, we proposed that.

"How is that a Christmas movie?" she asked me.

"Because Vin Diesel and his body are a gift to all of humanity," I said.

She looked at me like I'd drunk more wine than she'd realized.

JJ said, "Because it has car chases and explosions and what could be more festive than that?"

Tweetie kindly said, "Well, because it's Christmas and it will make you two happy, we can watch it. But I may not pay much attention."

After the first big chase scene, Tweetie, who was curled up against me said, "I can't believe I'm actually watching this."

"It's good, right?" I said.

"Yeah," she said, sounding surprised.

About midway through the movie, I noticed her eyelids drooping and asked if she wanted to go to bed or stay up and watch the whole movie.

"Whole movie," she said, too tired for complete sentences.

And she did watch the whole thing.

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (hangover)
I'll confess, I'm all outta whack. Some of it, I'm sure, is due to the boring saga of one decent night's sleep for every two bad. I've got a to-do list longer than my arm, and every day I tackle whatever item has reached a critical mass of induced anxiety so I can breathe again. Yesterday this went surprisingly well, because I'd been percolating over something long enough I knew how to fix it, but today...

Also surprising, at least to me, is that the poem-a-day project hasn't really been a source of stress at all, except those few times I forget about it and must race the clock to get it done before midnight. I think it was a wise decision not to commit to posting every day, because I am taking more risks and allowing myself to write bad poems when necessary.

I watched Lawless recently and really enjoyed it. Of course, Tom Hardy--what's not to enjoy (well, maybe Bronson, which I've purposely avoided). SPOILERS after the pretty pictures.

tom hardy lawless

smoking tom hardy lawless
(No, it's not the cigar. He's just SMOKING hot.)

What captivated me about Lawless was its busted moral compass. The protagonists are a bootlegging family, and what they do is presented without much rationalization, nor explanation of how these guys came to be such thugs. (I suppose one brother has war-related PTSD, but that motivation's not developed.) They don't go out of their way to make trouble, but there is no halfway with them, either. In fact, much of the movie is spent pushing the youngest, cockiest brother to become a full-fledged murderer. I wanted to shake him for always wanking out at the last minute, and my own issues notwithstanding, I think that was the intended reaction.

The movie unfolds slowly. You could even argue there's no plot, because the obstacles the brothers must overcome have no bearing on the conclusion. And that's where the wonky moral compass is most obvious, because--unlike, say, the Fast and Furious franchise, where the heroes are unabashed criminals with no intent of changing and we're still supposed to root for them--once Prohibition is over, the Lawless brothers have no apparent trouble becoming regular, small-town citizens. They get jobs, settle down and get married, have kids.

One reviewer said that the sentimental ending was meaningless because he felt no emotional investment in any of the protags. In contrast, I liked the older two of the three brothers, and I was happy they "lived HEA". And I appreciated the ending because it showed that conventional notions of good and bad, cop and criminal, are largely meaningless. If anything, it was the urban influence on rural communities that was the bad guy here.
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (castiel sigh)
for a disappointing movie...

This weekend I watched The Expendables.
Big surprise, the movie was execrable.
Despite guns and mayhem,
they wasted Jason Statham,
who never even took his shirt off.

And while I'm at it...

I'm not a Marvel fan, to be fair,
but Green Lantern was still a nightmare.
The best scene I found
was Reynolds hopping around
in nothin' but tight underwear.

narcoleptic dean

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (hola)

The other night I finished watching the first season of Sons of Anarchy. I near wept with happiness. Such good storytelling. My favorite character is Juice. (Are you surprised? Tell me you're not surprised.) Look at this cutie.

theo rossi times four 

And here's a strangely happy song I fell in love with yesterday... (It's strange I fell in love with something so happy, is what I mean.)

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (so tired)

Whenever I think about summarizing this week's shitscape, my brain shrivels in its case and tries to hide. So instead, in the following spirit

Attention: Shit could be worse (you're not dead)

I shall post Happy-Making Things.

1. I watched The Lost Boys again last night. Hilarious as always. This time I noticed how handsy Michael is with his little brother Sammy while Grandpa's laying down the house rules, and I caught the pedo vibe from Max: just how did he end up with a pack of teenage boys in need of a mother...?

2. Feminist Ryan Gosling. And this one is my favorite so far:

3. Tis the season for pan de muerto. We're invited to a dinner for Dia de los Muertos, so I'm thinking I'll bake a practice loaf this weekend and a fresh one for the party.

Or maybe I'll just sit here staring at Ryan...

4. I wrote yesterday (about 1K). And I'll write today. 

5. And what the hell, this song always cheers me up: Caress Me Down, by Sublime (lyrics NSFW)

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (Default)

Still a little crunky from the cold, and apt to nap at the slightest provocation, but I'm better. Took it easy last night and lazed in bed this morning. Now I'm drinking my pumpkin pie spice coffee and catching up on important stuff. Like this screen test of James Dean and Richard Davalos for East of Eden. Can I say it puts me in a happy place?

And I'm thinking about the things I''ll probably do today, like laundry. And vacuuming. Possibly recycling. And if my body holds out, I'll attend a friend's poetry reading downtown. Tomorrow, if it's not raining too much, maybe we'll head out to Wilson's Orchard with our tribe and pick some different apples. And a pumpkin.

Speaking of pumpkins, here is a pumpkin pinhole camera solargraph I found on flickr. (by user Crunchy Footsteps)


I can honestly say I never thought of doing that with a pumpkin.

How 'bout you? What does your Saturday have in store?


cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (hola)

As part of today's research, I googled "types of noses." In 1852, George Jabet attempted to exhaustively catalogue the various kinds of human noses with Notes on Noses. Jabet lists seven types of noses: Roman/aquiline, Greek, Greco-Roman, Cogitative, Jewish, Snub and Celestial. (Celestial!) Obviously, Jabet's study was limited, not just in the way of examples, as he acknowledges in his preface, but also by his racial/ethnic obliviousness. Still, the book is fascinating and often amusing, with illos and geometry. So far my favorite part is the chapter titled "How to Get a Cogitative Nose."

"It is a great and prevalent mistake to imagine that a Cogitative mind (and Nose) is to be acquired by reading alone. It is almost certain that, as books multiply, Cogitative Minds decrease, for how is a man to think, if all his thinking is done for him?"

Modern readers might wonder, for that matter, how women might ever acquire such a sought-after nose. (Snip, snip!)

More recently (2011), Professor Abraham Tamir wrote in the Journal of Craniofacial Surgery that there are actually 14 types of noses. The snub, the Duchess (e.g., Kate Middleton),  the fleshy, the hawk, the Mirren, Greek, aquiliine, Roman, Rumpole, celestial, Lenin, Redknapp, Nixon, and the Tara. I confess an attraction to the Greek and aquiline noses on men. But this catalog also suffers from glaring omissions, and worse, perpetuates the same kind of personality predictions Jabet offered over a century ago.

My nose is, I think, snub. According to Simon Brown, author of The Secrets of Face Reading, "People with this type of nose are often quick-witted and more street-wise than your average person. They react quickly — sometimes too quickly, which can sometimes lead to aggression." Which, except for the temper part, is all wrong. I have the reactions of a turtle and the street smarts of an armadillo.

How about you? What kind of nose do you have? What kinds of noses do you find attractive on other people? What, if anything, do you think noses "mean"?


cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (skull gloves)
This weekend, I got to see Steve McQueen's 1947 Indian motorcycle at the National Motorcycle Museum in Anamosa.

photo of steve mcqueen's 1947 Indian motorcyle

And there was much squeeing and longing and cursing of the "do not touch" museum policy. But, alas, such policies are no doubt for the best, lest fans like me pick the bikes apart--a string here, a fleck of paint there, a bit of rust, just a little wire, just one spoke...

There were other, prettier, more famous motorcycles. But this is the one I'd save if the building were on fire.


Jul. 1st, 2011 10:57 am
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (misunderstood)
 Last night I watched The Town, and I liked it in the moment, but the more I think about it this morning, the less satisfied I am.

The niggling doubt was the extremely thin characterization of the female lead. At first I thought she wasn't a great actress, then I realized she had nothing to work with; she was merely a foil to the hard-knocked, blue-collar professional thief played by Ben Affleck. She was vaguely "rich," a do-gooder with a tragically dead little brother, innocent to the realities of life in Charlestown, MA, the armed robbery capital of the States. Toonie to Affleck's townie. Thinking about the script, I have to say, there's not much more on the page for Affleck's character, but he seethes with beatdown antiheroism. He also wrote and directed, so he knew the character through and through. (That and he acted opposite Jeremy Renner; dude forces you to bring your A-game.)

Then I started thinking, the female problem was the same thing that happened in Gone Baby Gone, which starred Ben's little brother Casey, and which Ben wrote from Dennis Lehane's novel and directed. I remember really liking that movie, too, except I never understood why in that movie, the male/female private investigating team came down on different sides of an ethical dilemma, considering they grew up in the same town and practically lived the same life. The female partner just "feels" differently than our hero, and viewers never get a good explanation as to why.

Brooding over this matter last night, I totally forgot it wasn't Ben Affleck starring in both movies, because it's essentially the same setting, same main character, same "civic" pride battling with desire for something better... Don't get me wrong--I think both movies are good, even great. I love that the characters are blue-collar, never quite law-abiding (because, shit, when you're poor, it's easy to go astray), proud and loyal. I love the fully realized settings and the sense of neighborhood-twisted-with-family history. I hope the Afflecks make plenty more movies, because they provide something I don't see much elsewhere. But thus far in this genre, their something doesn't include understanding or even much interest in how women navigate the same struggles.

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (drinking)
Last night I watched "Bullitt," which was marvelous except for the reeediculous lines Jacqueline Bisset had to deliver. I mean, really. She's just seen her first dead body and a bunch of cops standing over it, talking like it's a piece of toast. I can see going off on Bullitt. But just when you think she's going to scream or vomit or something really emotional, she instead delivers THEME. She psychologizes at him and demands to know what his callous police attitude means for their affair. Whaa? I also note that the only time she wears pants is when she has to run after him, thus leading her to see the dead body.

Other than that, what a joy. The realism. I felt like I was roaming the tunnels under the hospital with Bullitt. The classic car chase. The methodic pacing. I loved that the film spent roughly equal amounts of time staring at Steve McQueen/Bullitt as he was thinking as it did a fax machine slowly churning out a CLUE and at the nose of a jumbo jet taxiing to the terminal. It make take time, but Bullitt will get the bad guys, you can be sure of that.
Then I watched a short, entertaining documentary, "Who the #$&% is Jackson Pollock?" The film, about a woman who finds a $5 painting in a thrift store and fights to prove it's a work by Jackson Pollock, raises all sorts of tangled questions about authenticity, elitism, the cult of celebrity, epistemology and skepticism. I thought it very interesting that the International Foundation for Art Research, when asked to assess an artwork's authenticity, provides an unsigned brief. There is no one with whom to discuss or argue the findings, to face for an appeal, to question. Very much like the Motion Picture Association of America operates when assigning a rating to a film. Incidentally, this documentary received a PG13, for no reason I can see but one or two uses of the word "fuck" and a spurious tale of Jackson Pollock signing a work with his dick.
John Myatt, "the biggest art fraud of the 20th century," makes an appearance. He seemed like a sweetie.
 *Edited to correct spelling: Pollock Pollock Pollock. Why can I not spell Pollock?
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (silver teapots)

From David Huerta's "Song of Money," my thoughts immediately jump to the Bible's "Song of Songs." The association may seem strange for an atheist, but 1) I was not always an atheist, and 2) this section of the Bible remains one of the few I find genuinely interesting in itself, as opposed to necessary as cultural collateral.
Specifically, the loving enumeration of physical beauties and the metaphors employed to describe them strike me as both strange and familiar. Strange because the comparisons are so different from those I would have chosen, because of the geographic and cultural disjunct between writer and reader; but familiar because my brain tends to zero in on details to the exclusion of sensible wholes.
I won't reproduce the entire book or even chapters here, although here's the wikisource link. What I'll focus on are the descriptive passages that still captivate me years after having first read them.

excerpts from Song of Songs


Behold, you are beautiful.
Your eyes are doves behind your veil.
Your hair is as a flock of goats,
that descend from Mount Gilead.
Your teeth are like a newly shorn flock,
which have come up from the washing,
where every one of them has twins.
None is bereaved among them.
Your lips are like scarlet thread.
Your mouth is lovely.
Your temples are like a piece of a pomegranate behind your veil.
Your neck is like David's tower built for an armory,
whereon a thousand shields hang,
all the shields of the mighty men.
Your two breasts are like two fawns
that are twins of a roe,
which feed among the lilies.
Until the day is cool, and the shadows flee away,
I will go to the mountain of myrrh,
to the hill of frankincense.
You are all beautiful, my love.
There is no spot in you.


My beloved is white and ruddy.
The best among ten thousand.
His head is like the purest gold.
His hair is bushy, black as a raven.
His eyes are like doves beside the water brooks,
washed with milk, mounted like jewels.
His cheeks are like a bed of spices with towers of perfumes.
His lips are like lilies, dropping liquid myrrh.
His hands are like rings of gold set with beryl.
His body is like ivory work overlaid with sapphires.
His legs are like pillars of marble set on sockets of fine gold.
His appearance is like Lebanon, excellent as the cedars.
His mouth is sweetness yes, he is altogether lovely.


 My cynical side says these lovers would feel right at home beneath Joyce Kilmer's trees. Teeth like sheep, hair like goats, lips like lilies. At least the Song's author(s) only liken the lovers' attributes to such disparate things, rather than saying that their eyes *are* doves or their temples pomegranates.

But I'm reminded of lines from Plato's Republic, nevertheless. Regarding a statue, its hypothetical painter says: "...please do not suppose that we must paint eyes so beautiful that they do not even look like eyes, nor again the other parts, but consider whether by giving what is fitting to each, we make beautiful the whole." Aside from the allegorical valence of Plato's words, I must admit, "Hey, I resemble that remark!"
When I look at things or people, I tend to focus so intensely on details that I can't remember what the whole looks like without repeated, sustained viewing. (I may be "faceblind.") When I describe a person or thing in my writing, I often feel as though the elements are dead-on but the whole is a surreal mish-mash. Which might be why I like writing poetry, where my inability to synthesize visual info can be turned into the poetic virtues of merism, synecdoche, and metonymy.
I like the complication of Song of Songs, which presents me with comparisons beyond my usual purview and thereby highlights my own dependence on cultural stock. I am forced to consider how strange my own metaphors and similes may strike readers/listeners. But I'm also relieved to see my neurological quirks "canonized" and I appreciate being able to observe them from the outside, as it were. I feel I am entering a new world through a familiar door.
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (lightbulb)

Memorized Poems

The first lines of this poem are so often quoted that as a preteen I decided most people who quoted it probably didn't know the whole poem, and I, being contrary that way, decided to memorize the entire piece. Further motivation came from Byron's bad boy image, which made the poem seem all the more artful (laying it on a bit thick, wasn't he?), and that Byron was scandalous enough to be depicted in a movie wherein Julian Sands ran around naked. (Although I'd later come to realize that Sands would disrobe for any movie. Ick.)

She Walks in Beauty

by Lord Byron


She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.


One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.


And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
cafenowhere: abby from TV show NCIS, eyes closed, listening to music (abby dreaming)

midnight ku
pristine as the moon
gone by morning

For the first time in a long while, I had one of those middle-of-the-night brainstorms. Not surprisingly, it was during my manic swing on that Deceptively Good Day. I lay there in bed and marvelled at this perfect haiku I'd discovered. "Should I get up and write it down?" I wondered. "Nah, I've gotten better at remembering, and if I indulge this mania once, I'll be popping up all night."

Sure enough, that poem was long gone by morning. So I wrote this one instead. :)


Yesterday was Steve McQueen's birthday! The King of Cool would've been 81 years old, had he not died in 1980 from cancer. A few of my favorite photos of McQueen:

Honestly? I think it's the socks. :)

I'm a sucker for a good dad.

Steve, making breakfast look damn irresistible. (1970)
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (garcia)

1. Henry Rollins. All this:

topless henry rollins in profile

and good politics too.

2. Sublime. Caress Me Down, Pawn Shop, April 29 1992, Waiting for my Ruca, Santeria, Boss DJ...I should just get their discography tattooed down my legs.

3. Morningstar Corn Dogs.

4. The beneficent anarchy that is Misha Collins.

5. Crispin Hellion Glover.

movie still, Crispin Glover and a table of rats, in Willard

6. This fierce chicken. Or rooster. Whatever:

gif of white chicken disco dancing and regetting nothing

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (coffee addicted)
As always, feel free to share your own happy-making things in comments!

1. I have awesome friends who call me on my shit but never hurt my feelings, who encourage me to keep on truckin' without making me feel like I've been slackin'.

2. Supernatural's "hellatus" is almost over! Oh Show, bring back Soulful Sam and at least a facsimile of sense-making senseness.

3. My long-suffering hubby watched a ridiculous number of movies with me this weekend. The good: The Secret of Kells and Legend of the Guardians. The Bad: Angel-A and  Journey to the Center of the Earth. The Ugly: 28 Weeks Later. Also, he is not jealous of my tv/movie boyfriends, as evidenced by his impulse to buy Men's Journal for me because Jason Statham is on the cover.

4. This weekend I learned my brother was a sleepwalker...or, a sleep circler. He'd get up, walk in a circle, and go right back to bed. Like a dog. Do you know the blackmail potential of this?

5. Apparently my body is a wonderland, but someone sneaks in after dark: I have a scratch on my bum I can't explain, and while showering this morning, I discovered purple tinsel in my belly button. O_o

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (studying)
As seldom as I write long-hand these days, I must admit, there's still something so deeply satisfying about running my fingers over the ink-embossed pages of my composition book, feeling the weight and ripple of my bountiful, handwritten words. Akin to the sense of accomplishment that comes of writing a pen dry. I reviewed my journal this afternoon, looking for any leftover threads I might spin to gold. I 'm surprised but grateful that, despite poem-a-day, I've got some inventory.

Last night, J and I watched Peacock (2010), starring Cillian Murphy, Ellen Page, Susan Sarandon, and Josh Lucas. It was fabulous. The first 30 minutes or so, I felt deeply sad for the main character. Then the twist came and I spent the next hour gripped by dread. So much more suspenseful than any horror movie.

And it was filmed in Iowa! I can't believe I didn't know that! What kind of movie buff am I? Cillian Murphy was in the state, and I wasn't there to stalk make eyes at him! I'm so disappointed in myself.

cillian murphy removing eyeglasses with contemptuous sigh, a gif from "crane's" sig line on cillian murphy fan forum
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (chevy)

Say anything scene ala warhol with yellow zinger background and hot pink lloyd dobler

Day 8: Three Turn-ons

1. Jason Statham
2. Vin Diesel
3. Cillian Murphy knew those already, didn't you? I can try again.

1. Classic cars
2. Sleek motorcycles
3. Rock music surprises there, either. Hmmm...

1. Competence.
2. Focus.
3. Eye-fucking.

Oh dear. It's not getting any better, is it? But I'm having fun. ;)

I showed you mine. Now you show me yours!

Vital Idol

Nov. 30th, 2010 11:35 am
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (celebrate cupcake)

Today Billy Idol is *55* years old! And I thought he was old when I was bopping around to "Cradle of Love."

How could I not love the guy who drove his motorcycle through a church's stained glass window? How could I not adore the guy so bad-ass that not even being paralyzed in a motorcycle accident could stop him from performing? So bad-ass that he made walking with a cane look fucking HOT? And he's a vegetarian! And he gave us (indirectly) the best male vampire ever: Spike!

Did you know he got his stage name from a teacher's snippy remark on a school paper? "Billy is idle."

Did you know the video for "Dancing with Myself" was directed by Tobe Hooper, the director of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre?

Did you know he was almost the T-1000 in Terminator 2? The motorcycle accident prevented that.

Did you know he was in Oliver Stone's The Doors? He would've had a bigger role, but it was too soon after the accident.

Did you know his album Cyberpunk was inspired by the medical measures used to get him walking again? And that he still has a steel rod in his leg?

Oh, Billy. If we'd met when I was a wild girl and you were just "old," you never would've had to dance with yourself.
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (saint dean)
1. My husband walks loud. That is, he stomps when he walks through the house so as not to catch me off-guard, because when I'm startled in the house, I scream loud enough to kill small creatures and it hurts my heart. So he's taught himself to be a clumsy beast, for my benefit.

2. My daughter doesn't turn a hair at being the only girl in a group of boys her age.

3. Vegetarian entrees on La Reyna's buffet, and their horchata

4. My cats purr loud enough to annoy me, but it's because that's how happy they are.

5. Tom Hardy in drag (slurp!)

6. Supernatural tonight

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (celebrate cupcake)

Today Joaquin Phoenix is 36 years old, and can I just say how very glad I am that we got him "back"? Two years is too fucking long for a hoax in service of a mockumentary.

Joaquin was about 14 years old when he played Garry in one of my favorite family movies, Ron Howard's Parenthood. He didn't have a lot of lines. Most of the time Garry kind of lurked around being sullen and sad, partly because of his parents' divorce, partly because of normal teenager boy stuff, as his sister's boyfriend, Tod (Keanu Reeves), explains to their mom, Helen (Diane Wiest).

Tod: Can I speak frankly, no holds barred? That is one messed up little dude. We can talk straight? Um, a few months ago, Garry got his first... boner. You know what that is?

Helen: If memory serves.

Tod: Aw, great! Anyway, since then, he's been... uh... slappin' the salami. No offense.

Helen: No.

Tod: Apparently, he's goin' for a world record. Anyway, he was afraid there was something wrong with him, you know? Like he was a pervert or something. I told him that's what little dudes do - we've all done it. It made him happy.

Helen: Garry was happy?

Tod: He even smiled! I never even knew he had teeth!

The jacking-off theme continued when he starred alongside Nicole Kidman in To Die For. Joaquin played Jimmy, a high school loser who is seduced by his teacher and agrees to murder her husband. Jimmy is a pretty easy mark, admitting, "Any time it rains, or when there's thunder and lightning, or when it snows, I have to jack off."

Better was his role as Max California in 8mm, where he played a struggling musician who works in a porn shop and helps a detective (Nic Cage) track down the makers of a snuff film. Although here too, Joaquin gets to deliver a fair number of smutty lines, like "Can I interest you in a battery-operated vagina?...Are you sure? I'd hate for you to be in one of those everyday situations that calls for a battery-operated vagina and not have one."

Alas, Max is too secretly sensitive and pretty to survive the movie. (Although he insists he's not gay.)

Joaquin also starred in Clay Pigeons, but Vince Vaughn stole the show there. I liked his big-brother-worshipping character in Signs, too. To be honest, though, in that movie he totes around Abigail Breslin, and I'm kind of a sucker for a guy who knows how to carry a kid, regardless. That, and I like to pretend that, rather than two brothers raising the older one's children, the movie is really about a gay couple with kids. (Yeah, that would give Mel Gibson a coronary--BONUS!)

I'll admit, I haven't watched one of Joaquin's movies in a bit. I was interested in We Own the Night, but find Mark Wahlberg hard to watch in light of his homophobic (or homophobic enabling) attitudes. But I have Reservation Road in Ye Olde Netflix Queue and hope to see more of Joaquin soon.




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