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I make sure that the door is closed as my 6-foot, 300+ body gets on its knees and pukes out heavy chunks of partially masticated popcorn, chicken wings and bread rolls. I curse everything around me. I curse the day I was born. More chunks spray into the bathtub and on my hands and I curse myself again.

I should have hurled in the commode.

I’ve been here before. 5 hours past I was spraying bruschetta and tomatoes at this Irish pub in Sterling. The menu written in celtic style font says O’Faolains. There was no place at the bar, so we sit in the corner table. I make a run for the table, cutting off two white girls. The movie theater is across the street. We’re here because I didn’t want to hit the clubs on my 21st, and because the Departed is playing. We missed the 8:30 show so I could get drunk.

But, back to the puking. The guy in the stall next to me sounds concerned. He’s a US marine, and he doesn’t remember his own 21st birthday. Something about Thailand, hookers and shore leave. He closes the bathroom door to make sure his wife doesn’t hear him.
Back at the table, RL and Sachin are enjoying every moment of this. Its my 21st birthday, and to pop my cherry I’m swilling down 151 proof alcohol. Yes. That drink. Straight up. The kind that they put on top of drinks and set on fire. The kind that medical proffessionals call pure ethanol. We’ve missed the 8:30 show, so we’ll wait it out until the 10:00 PM show, the last of the night. Until then, there’s nowhere to go except crazy.
It goes down fine. No really, I didn’t choke. Only, I take a breath at the last gulp. So now I’m coughing and spluttering as RL and Sach hand me 3 wise men. Its a devious shot, a mix of Jim Beam, Jack Daniel’s and Jose Cuervo. The only missing guy is Johnnie.
I’m drunk in 15 minutes. I’m talking to a US marine about Thai hookers in 20.

I’m only grateful that I never lost cognizance while I was drunk. I’d like to watch Jack Nicholson pop some rats without passing out.

Our waitress is a very nice looking woman. I lean over and tell her I’ve puked in the bathroom. I try to make sure she doesn’t think I’m out of my mind because I’m drunk. I try to explain that I just want the people who clean the bathrooms to know someone puked in there. She hands me a plate of rolls to soak up the alcohol in my system. RL and Sachin couldn’t be having a better time.

RL is asking me about last week. Last week at Ultrabar in DC. Me, dog tired from working the AllRoads Film Festival as champagne flows freely around me. I’m looking at the drink menu to see if they have tequila. A bottle of Cristal sells for 3 grand at this club. Cristal’s $300 on the street. That’s almost a 1000% profit.
The dj keeps spinning 80’s rock music. No worries, the DJ spins some Elephant Man on our floor. Our entourage steps to the dance floor. I know how I look. Holding it down fo’ the big heavy, I’m under no illusions. But fuck it, I’m here to have a good time. I’m too fat, and too tired to care.
3 hours later, I’m enjoying myself on the dancefloor. Suddenly, the night gets a lot better as 2 of the hottest girls in the club step to me. Sachin’s mouth is on the floor. He later tells me he wouldn’t have known what to do in that situation, but apparently I handled it well. Getting freaked by 2 of the hottest women will certainly make your week, but I think these girls are trying to make chapatti out of me.

Next day, I’m getting a reckless driving ticket from a Virginia PD pig. Great fucking timing. I’m one week away from my 21st.

This story has nothing to do with the Departed.

We make the 10:00 o’clock show. Crowded theater and the front row is the only empty row.

Watching this movie, half drunk, shovelling popcorn and coca cola in my mouth, I never realized that Leo Dicaprio was Joe Pesci’s stepchild. Someone told me that in real life, Dicaprio would’ve never made it up to Nicholson’s crew without comitting an initiation murder. That way, he’s got as much to lose by being arrested as any of the gangsters. Jack’ll probably get his oscar for the 00 year, but Marty made sure that none of the actors outshone each other.
I wasn’t too impressed or surprised with the movie, mostly because I’d seen infernal affairs, so I knew everything that had to happen. The only surprise was Mahky Mahk cappin’ Matt Daimon at the end. I could see Matt Damon in the role of Ozymandias in Zack Snyder’s Watchmen, if it ever gets off the ground.
This is without a doubt, Marty’s best film since Goodfellas, but I’m still scared for him. This is Marty’s year. Its been a shit year for films on both continents. Even Omkara failed to impress me, barring the awesome soundtrack. This is Marty’s year, if it wasn’t for that fucking pissant Clint Eastwood and his Iwo Jima films. Flags of our Fathers comes out this week, and Red Sun, Black Sand comes out in February. Maybe people are bored of the same World War 2 greatest generation Band of Brothers schtick.
For some reasons, guns always sound the same in a movie theater. Maybe they really do sound all the same, maybe its because I don’t know guns, I don’t know. Mostly I think its because foley artists are the ones doing the gun sounds. Only films where semi-automatic gunfire actually sounds like its from a real gun is Heat and Collateral. Collateral only because they actually fired real gun rounds in some of the scenes.
Also, “Red Sun, Black Sand” is a much better title than “Letters from Iwo Jima”. Same goes for Infernal Affairs vs. The Departed. The departed is a catholic term, and infernal affairs refers in the movie itself to the 8 levels of buddhist hell, dante’s inferno and matters of internal affairs in the police force.

4 hours later, I’m in my own bathroom, spraying bile and popcorn all over the bathtub.

Nowhere to go, except crazy.

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