Our lives are so scripted

The other day I unconsciously copied a scene from a movie. We all do, considering our mundane lives. I was prepared to overcome a five-day fever, which left me unable to work, play, or stop hacking up a lung. Cooped up in my Brooklyn apartment, I opened my window to quite the torrential downpour, complete with electricity and wind I hadn’t felt in weeks. So I decided to do something fun, or possibly just weird.  I went outside.

I learned a few lessons on my walk. American Apparel t-shirts become sheer when wet, regardless of color, and probably on purpose. Wearing flip-flops in the rain invites small rocks and pieces of dirt to poke at your feet. Oh, and you may elicit a few strange, “is she schizophrenic?” looks from strangers. I walked and walked, until I looked like a drowned rat. But I felt good.  

Why? I don’t really know. People in movies do it. They walk by themselves, they flail and scream in it. I felt like I was washing five days of sweating and body aches away from my flesh. I leaned up against a lamppost and let it all drip into my mouth. Is there acid rain in New York?

After my 1-800-Epiphany moment, I showered and hung up my clothes to dry. I felt ready to resume some semblance of my everyday life. And then I went to the movies.

As a self-proclaimed “I’d rather read than watch a movie” type, I was compelled to head to Manhattan to see the Lisa Cholodenko film The Kids Are All Right. Movies focused around love and family and kids and all that shit are really not my taste, however this story presented a major bonus. This time, the love shit was centered on the lesbian relationship of Annette Bening and Julianne Moore. Lesbians! A-list stars! I mean, after Bening’s flawless performance in American Beauty, the idea of her with an Ellen DeGeneres haircut and a wool vest turned me on. Not to mention I’m still dealing with the loss of The L Word.

The L Word is the show of all shows. As another member of the homo family among Splice Today contributors, L fills an enormous visceral dent in my life. Unfortunately I jumped on the tranny wagon a bit late, after the show had already started. Don’t worry, you can’t forget this greedy world provides the episodes on DVD for a pretty penny to fix that problem, and I indulged, and indulged, losing my head and heart to all of the characters and their deliciously erotic lives.

I watched the series finale in a stupor this weekend. It was a dark, dark day, complete with a pack of 27s and any depressing song that comes to your mind. Immediately after finishing, I knew I had to go see this film to satisfy my desire for pseudo lesbian love.  

I waited on line at Whole Foods for 15 minutes for an outrageously priced container of berries and headed on my way. Both women looked good, a bit older than I last remembered, but proud they didn’t look like Restylane-pumped robots. The film’s evocation of the serious emotion that lies in any family, straight or gay, was spot on. However, the lack of attention to clit left me seriously irritated. Where were the sex scenes? Oh yeah, there was one of real weight—where Moore cheats on Bening with a dude. The only scene containing both women consisted of them under the covers while playing male-on-male porn. Say what? Lesbians don’t do that.

The film was intellectually rich, had good performances, but a quiet heteronormative agenda. This is why I stick with books—at least you can insert your own image. Anyway, I needed the fresh air. The subway paused at my stop just when “Roads” by Portishead began on my iPod, and the walk home moved perfectly in sync with the rhythm of Beth Gibbons’ voice. The “walk” sign flashed as the chorus was queued, and it faded out just in time for me to catch a phone call. Doesn’t that kind of thing only happen in movies, too?