SO IT GOES, I STAY AT HOME
With a Da Kine Calendar chock-full of great things to do on-Isle, it’s a damn shame to spend any time indoors. But even in the most rested circumstances, the new-mattress smell is considerably more alluring than that of it’s car counterpart. Instead of hitting the road, it is then all the easier to (contentedly) remain a sweating terrarium plant.
This weekend, I was the beneficiary of such sleep luxury. It goes without saying I had nothing to do with earning the enjoyment of a brand new bed set (a first for me), but the enjoyment was mine nonetheless. Not to mention it is of the happiest reprieve; coming at the end of a week spent hot and horizontal, on chemo and steroids, binge-eating between delusions of being aboard the U.S.S. Crazy, eating a shit-ton of strawberry shortcake with my boss’. Seriously.
So, what (besides a new mattress) can save a soul from pitiful existence? Mind Candy.
FROM THE FOLKS THAT BROUGHT YOU…
“Don’t rent it. Buy it.”
A sentiment powerfully-stated, from the most (unwittingly) wise man I have ever known. Though he was talking about 2006’s Grandma’s Boy (and was preceded with “Dang ‘ol man…”) his words have since become my standard for rating movies—a pass or fail system, erring toward maintaining a very small personal collection (whatever your standards may be).
Actualizing said idyllic collection is, well, unrealistic for me at present time; but the happy confidence of bestowing upon few a “buy it,” sticker does just as well.
Appositely, my number-one be-stickering goes to:
THE NO. 1 LADIES’ DETECTIVE AGENCY
And hell if the first thing—in awhile—that has inspired such “buy it” love was not enjoyed via Netflix (and by my bed-buying beloved’s keen ordering, at that)!
From start to finish, it is a glass of chilled nectar for the eyes and heart. The costuming alone reconverts even the zealot, to sing praises that Textile is a gracious and visceral goddess. Set in Botswana, with impeccable 70’s revival styling, you for a moment you dare to assume period piece. But with the regular play of slim digital cameras, blue tooth and “boom boom boxes,” it welcomingly amalgamates with modern convenience all the bygone elements of superior craftsmanship, that is (to me) the allure of haute vintage. The cinematography hangs a heavy hat in a pool bottom colored palette, alive and juxtaposed with the colors of saffron and sand. Embarrassingly, I have waxed poetic about nothing but the show’s most superficial—albeit beautiful—qualities, when it is the writing, and the warm, rhythmic ways of star Jill Scott, that will turn any gray day to pure sunshine, and have you rejoicing HBO has signed on for another season.
Jill Scott is the African Agent Cooper—a heart of gold, though not without its aching trouble.
Includes “At The Codfish Ball”