Withdrawal

I'm far too idealistic sometimes. I put so much hope and trust into one thing, only to be desparingly let down. True, I'm a cynic to the bone, disproportionatley bitter for my age, but oh, I love life. It's People I can do without. But life is extraordinary sometimes. Unfortunately, those sometimes come few and far between, leaving only the desperation and hopelessness. Yet for all the gloom hanging over us, there are those moments when you're in love with life. I just wish I could feel that way forever, to forever be in love.

I'm content. Right now, I am content. I've spent a lazy Sunday, watching movies from Netflix, high as a kite and twice as pretty, just trying to get out and over the night before. It was yet another disappointment, in one has become a running joke in my life. A party seems like such a simple thing. invite some friends over, drink, have fun and try not to say anything they might remember and hold against you in the future. Human relations are not simple, though. They cannot be because human emotions are too intense and consuming and only enhanced with the use of drugs and alcohol. But who can resist a room of their favorite people, loud music and conversations that at the time seem wonderfully meaningful?

The party was a bit of a failure, one that I took, like everything else, very personally. I like to think every emotion I feel has some greater resonance, some reason why. And I hate my job. It makes me want to die. Literally. It feels as if my life is not my own whenever I'm there, that my soul is no longer of use. I need to be in a creative atmosphere yet all I can do right now is work in an office. I am trapped by all these material things and I am utterly miserable. So why not throw a party?! A good olde housewarming party. My week was horrible, wrapped in depression and a growing sense of 'what the hell is it all for?' This party was to be my salvation, I thought. It wasn't. And I went to bed at 1 convinced I'd be unshakably withdrawn for the rest of the week.

And I might still. I like to run away from people and into myself when living becomes too much. I'm sure everyone does. Or maybe they do the opposite. Depends on who you are, I suppose. But as I lay on my bed this Sunday afternoon/evening, I don't care as I much as I thought I would. Yes, the party, and everything I had attached to it, delfated. That's life. A series of disappointments. I loathe the idea of going back to work tomorrow, though. I don't think I can handle it anymore. It's time to move on. The question is, will I be able to find the strength to move again. Have I gotten too comfortable, too lazy, too complacent to move? No, I cannot stay there. I cannot subject myself to such feelings daily. I must get out or I'll never get anywhere again.

But I'm ok. I watched my Netflix'd "The Hours" today. I had a very Mrs. Dalloway day yesterday. An ordinary day of errands for an inevitably frustrating party. It was wonderful. The movie, not the day. That something so tender, sensitive and revelatory can exist, gives me the reason in life I'm seeking. Art. To act, to write, to direct, to CREATE. I have to live in the hours of my life, no matter how hard they may seem. Or how pointless. After all, there is something waiting between them. Perhaps a great party. Or a great book. A great film. And the people I've been foolish/lucky enough to love.

All You Have to Do is Dreeeeaaam, Baby,We'll Be There... *And TWIRL*

So apparently I was the last gay in the world to see Dreamgirls, providing further evidence to have my 'mo card unceremoniously snatched from my immaculately manicured fingers. Ever since I heard about this movie, like around summer, I was a bit excited. And yes, that is an understatement. I was f-ing psyched. Especially when I started hearing the buzz. Standing O at Cannes! Oscar for Jennifer Hudson! Beyonce doesn't suck! What-what-what? Soon the anticipation became crippling. Living in NYC, I looked forward to seeing it before everyone else on Dec. 15th and then rubbing it in the rest of the gay nation's faggy face. Unfortunately, tickets were sold out until its wide release on Christmas Day. Thus I made it my mission to see the Dreams while in Poughkeepsie during the holiday. That, however didn't pan out, either on Christmas or the following weekend of New Years, as a bitch was too stoned and lazy to function. And I will not take your judgmental stares, either, mother fuckers. I'll tell you what, last person who looked at me like that got their left eye dug out with a plastic spork. Thus the new year dawned, miserably, by the way, and my manifest destiny's child was still out of my grasp. To make matters worse, I went to a friends' birthday party, steam packed with gays. Inevitably, the conversations turned towards Dreamgirls and I felt the cold Antarctic wind of the pariah, an outsider among outsiders. What kind of queen was I?! So, to comfort myself in the cold, Dream-less nights, I downloaded not only the regular soundtrack, but also the Deluxe Edition. 36 songs, y'all! Yet the shiny, bubbly 60s/70s Motown soul by way of Broadway with a quick detour in Vegas, only made me crave the accompanying visuals more. Finally, I saw it last weekend.

I liked it. Ok, really liked it. Didn't love it. It was really good. Not GREAT. As a movie, it's all right. The pacing's a bit off, and some of the characters and their relationships aren't developed that well. Actually most of the characters. You know who they are and what they're like, but not necessarily what drives them and why. That's really because there's very little in the way of dialogue in the movie. But it's a fucking musical. People's thoughts and feelings are expressed in elaborately staged numbers, much like how my thoughts and feelings are expressed on a daily basis. 5,6,7,8 I'm high! *And TWIRL!* The movie's lack of depth, though, is counterbalanced by the often thrilling performances and those damn, fabulous costumes. Eddie Murphy is surprisingly good. Lively, energetic and actually pretty sexy, while still human and tragic. Almost makes you forget that he made his last, like, 15 movies. Almost. Beyonce is actually rather capable as Deena Jones, except when given too much dramatic weight to carry on her dainty little shoulders. But Foxxy Cleopatra she is not. And her Diana Ross interpolation is awesome. Bitch remains a charismatic performer, if not a charismatic actress. And when she does that twirl during the "Dreamgirls" number, you realize that the girl probably killed Diana Ross and stole her essence because there's a new diva in town. Quick note: B apparently lost 20 lbs to play Deena Jones...I mean did she gain 40 lbs before losing it, or...just wondering. Gorgeous though. And Jenny Huds. Hi. Though her role didn't require that much acting, it did require a hell of a lot of emoting. You feel for Effie White, even when she's sassing the world with her big hips and even bigger voice. And what a voice. My face melted off during "And I'm Telling You (I'm Not Going)." How a relatively boring Jamie Foxx managed to walk out on that, is beyond me. Will it translate to an Oscar? I wouldn't be surprised, though the Academy might favor something less showy and with more acting. But any performance that can bring god in the room for 4:45 deserves attention. Oh, and how I do love when a star is born. In short, Dreamgirls, though not really worth all the hype, is still entertaining as balls. Big sequiny balls with some shimmery fringe and a beehive wig. It's full of magic so it's very easy to look past the weak-ish storyline and occasionally boring direction. I'm totally getting it when it comes out on DVD. And not from that little Asian woman in the subway, either.