I Heart Antonio Banderas. It's A Disease. No, Not That Disease.
Do you ever say something and then silently pray to God you're kidding. I just had one of those moments a few minutes ago, when I said that I didn't care about Clint Eastwood or Jamie Foxx or Cate Blanchett or anyone in Hollywood who isn't Antonio Banderas. I was joking but then curiously, it all of a sudden felt like the truth. I have a sickness.
Last night we were watching the Academy Awards, something I never do but had to make an exception because Chris Rock was hosting. I went to the kitchen and all of a sudden Geo yells out "Yo Riss, your boy is singing a song!" And I knew automatically who he meant and went running back to the living room. Trust me, this post is being written with no small amount of self-loathing. Quick Digression: I just read an article about how the Oscars lost 2 million viewers this year because of Chris Rock. Um no, they lost more than 2 million viewers this year because no one's heard or seen any of the movies nominated. Last year Return of the King was up.
Anyway back to Antonio. Excuse me real quick, while I choke down the bile. This morning I woke up a bit disoriented. I dreamt that I was lost in New York and couldn't reach any of my friends. Finally I was able to reach Girlie, who told me to meet her and Aud at the (fictional) Costco in Jersey City. I get to Costco before them, so I sit down on some couch in a display area to watch TV. Antonio Banderas walks by, and some old Spanish lady starts going into hysterics. He doesn't stop and talk to her so she asks me to follow him and ask him to come back. So I do, and he says he doesn't want to and instead invites me to the um, Costco VIP room.
On our way there, we're walking and I tell him that I never considered myself a fan of his, but that one day I noticed that I had like 8 of his movies, including Original Sin. He responds that Original Sin was kind of crappy and I say "As long as we're on the same page."
We get to the VIP room and it's a red room with white tile floors in the back of the store, complete with bouncer, DJ booth and a disco ball. A table runs the length of an entire wall, complete with numerous fruit and luncheon platters. I naturally decide to eat, but never actually get to see myself eating because that's kind of just the way eating works in my dreams. It's like my brain takes an intermission during dream meals.
Afterwards one of those little Mexican shuttle buses they have all over Jersey City comes by to pick him up. He asks me to come with him and I refuse, because I have to go home to my husband. My dream script writers should be more like the Friends writers. It would have been funnier if I busted out my laminated Top 5 list and showed him that he wasn't on it, and therefore I didn't have written permission from my significant other to bang him.