I didn't mean to stay up until three a.m., but I couldn't help myself. There are times when surfing Spanish television becomes genuinely addictive. Especially late at night, when decent movies trade off with in-country programming that ranges from toxic (gossip, 'reality' rubbish, 'discussion' shows that get people yelling at each other over current news) to pretty good (Buenafuente, Noche Hache).
And occasionally, when there's nothing wildly wonderful on, I find myself planted in front of the tube enduring something I would never inflict on myself back in the States simply because it's been dubbed into Spanish and I can rationalize it away as ongoing language work. (Which it actually kind of is.) But even that has its limits -- CSI Miami remains every bit as brain-destroying in Spanish as it is in English.
Late last night: found myself watching Real Madrid lose in spectacular fashion to Sevilla. Then found myself watching 'A Time To Kill' -- a hard-working cast trapped in an overblown story, me enjoying the novel illusion of Sandra Bullock speaking Spanish -- which gave way around 2 a.m. to 'Army of Darkness,' a bit of B-film fluff that Sam Raimi cranked out early in his career, the last entry in his Evil Dead/Necronomicon trilogy. (How do I know about this? From post-university years spent nursing an innocent love for B-films in all their tawdry cheesiness. You know you're in trouble when you've seen a film so many times that you can watch it dubbed in Spanish and recite dialogue in the original English.) It's an example of low-budget tackiness done with the kind of love and humor that lift it above your normal B-film dreck to... to... well, a higher level of B-film dreck. Because it's still a B-film, 80 minutes of relentlessly-padded, low-budget cheese. But with some blissfully wacky moments. And with Bruce Campbell at his absolute funniest. And with aggressively creative script and camera work. And it is just so silly. So silly that it had me chortling out loud, even as my sleepy bod tried desperately to get me to kill the telly and head to the comfy confines of bed and sleep.
A question lurking behind all the hilarity: why am I home watching TV on a Saturday night? The simplest answer, requiring the least thought: sometimes it just works out that way. And sometimes I am just fine with that. Joining Madrid's Saturday night throngs can get so intense. Bars and restaurants packed, rivers of people moving through the streets. Lots of noise, lots of activity, lots of trash strewn around. It's an impressive spectacle, sometimes fun, sometimes tiring. And if you're okay with your own company (as I am) and activities don't fall into place come a weekend night, a night home can be a fine alternative. Which has its advantages: My clothes don't smell like cigarette smoke the next morning. I laugh at my jokes. (Mostly.) I like my taste in music. I don't get impatient if my Spanish is less than perfect. (Mostly.) I'm easily pleased and wildly appreciative when the time and trouble is taken to make me a meal. Once in bed I tend to hog the covers, but that doesn't seem to bother me too much.
This is not to say that I am my dream date. Or my dream mate. Devilishly adorable, yes. With a distressingly cute bum. But the gender thing? Completely out of whack. Not the brand of bod I'm looking to cuddle with, not the kind of face I want to open my eyes to at the start of the day. (Finding it waiting in the bathroom mirror is one thing -- having to get out of bed and stumble down the hall first gives me time to prepare. Finding it next to me under the covers would be a whole other plate of chorizo.)
But you don't want to know about that. If you're smart, you don't want to know about any of this. So I'll stop blathering.
Later.
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Dusk, la Plaza de Santa Barbara, Madrid
España, te quiero.
rws 9:20 AM [+]
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