Thank you for making Twenty. I loved it, truly, madly, and deeply. From my reality as a resident alien mother of three, you seamlessly transported me back... to sun-warmed rugby fields where I'd stretch out with earphones on plush grass during amber autumn lunch hours, slowly savouring the words of Wordsworth, Forster, and Buber; to the basement of my dear old friend, Schildkroete Meister, where a bunch of us regulars would gather after school to listen to le grunge, shoot pool, eat ramen, hang out with his turtles, appropriate his mother's boyfriend's Heinekens, pour some for his big, hairy dogs, and chill happily for hours; and to my summer at residence in Québec City, where I'd perversely sing at the top of my lungs every single song off Ten and Fully Completely in English during what was dubbed by everyone on the floor as my "Hour Power Showers." Sometimes, I'd even attempt to translate the songs into bad French to be doubly sassy, and friends would collapse through the door and into the steamy shower room, its walls echoing with our helpless laughter.
A girl needs her outlets.
You took me back to the late, great, final years of high school and my even finer early years of travelling alone and university. That first album, featured so heavily in your film, is one of the indelible soundtracks of my life.
If there is only one thing I can not forgive, however, it is in the current footage of Vedder where the angle of the camera somehow manifests him aging into a convincing, horrifyingly unshakeable reincarnation of The Dude.
Now, should our paths ever cross at Easy Street or elsewhere in the city, it shall take every sad ounce of my feeble self-restraint to not approach his amiable, bathrobed self and naturally offer him a deliciously creamy, gently hand-shaken White Russian.
Jeff Bridges is NOT SEXY, dammit.
Eddie is actually kind of ruined for me now.
You know what? Come to think of it, thanks for nothing, Mr. Crowe.
sincerely,
k.
(photo credit: Wikipedia, Baby.)
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