Mixed Bag

I didn't blog last night because I had the opportunity to go to a screening at The Tribeca Film Festival. The offerings were a curious documentary by Isabella Rosselini about procreating bees, some clever animation and the showstopper, the premiere of Melvin Van Peeble's new film, "Confessions of an Ex-Doofus Itchy Footed Mutha." The film was entertaining and you can count on Melvin for his share of funny metaphors, but what impressed me most about this cinematic feat (and let's be honest--it ain't David Lean) was the fact that he wrote the music. The music was the thread that pulled this film together. Quite fabulous. And Melvin gave a little speech at the end of the film. Who knew that his hunka, hunka burning love son wasn't married? He announced that fact. Oh, I'd volunteer...but you knew that.

After the festival, Fang and I had dinner with Boychick and S-S-S-Sylvia in a trendy little bistro in Tribeca. It was the kind of place where you could order a brie cheese omelet with pomme frites at 11:13 pm. And it was delicious. We rolled home well past midnight and alas, I had only four hours left to sleep. An early morning work trip to Philadelphia was only hours away.

Of course I was up at the crack of dawn and off to Penn Station before the sun showed up. It's creepy and desolate at that hour. There are lots of bums sleeping off the night before and the daily commuters have yet to arrive. Still, I caught my train and rolled into the city of brotherly love looking out from my hotel room at a city caught in torrential rain, gloomy skies and a misty vista.
Where is our fucking summer already?