What a difference a half dozen margaritas make. Whoo!

Day number 5 at the 12th Philadelphia Film Festival left me feeling resentful towards just about all of humanity, or at least towards the jackasses who ruined Graveyard of Honor. But that horse has been beaten into a fine, pulpy mess, and I dare not bore my readers with the same old song and dance. Luckily I was taking a break from the festival on Day number 7 to enjoy some much-needed down time. What I needed was some time away from the films, away from the crowds. Shit, what I really needed was to get fucking loaded. Some fabulous co-workers helped out my cause (you gals rock) with an evening of drunken revelry. It had been a horrible day for just about everyone, and delicious margaritas helped ease the pain.

At least temporarily. Staggering home in a drunken stupor through Society Hill at midnight is... enlightening, to say the least. Somehow I avoided a visit from the Hangover Fairy and found myself awake the next morning earlier than I had been in months. The outset of Day number 8 found me jogging to work in a torrential downpour, which isn't the type of treatment my body deserved after the night I had put it through. I was soaked from head to toe when I arrived at the office, and it took the majority of the morning to dry out my clothes. I drifted through the day in a perpetual state of somnambulance, occasionally surfacing to attend a meeting, chat on Instant Messenger or finish my Graveyard of Honor review. Enthralling stuff, I'm sure.

Four-thirty rolled around, signalling the end of the workday for Lawrence and myself. We proudly donned our Press Passes and headed towards the Ritz Five theater to watch some French porno. You read that correctly, dear reader: we went to see vintage French pornography in a collection entitled The Good Old Naughty Days. Now, I hadn't expected to see huge crowds gather for a 5 pm showing of the film, but that's exactly what greeted us upon arriving at the Ritz. The place was absolutely jam-packed with people, and not just dirty old men (like Lawrence) either. There were scads of young, professional women in attendance, many of whom looked to be part of a couple. Every last seat was filled with someone's curious keister for a screening of hardcore, depraved, filthy pornography. Well Travis, you know what to book more of next year.

A fairly mature crowd was on-hand for the screening, making for a less uncomfortable experience than I had anticipated. To my knowledge there were only two walkouts, and no rollouts. I can visualize you scratching your head, so I might as well explain the "rollout" joke at this juncture. During an after-work screening of the French rape-revenge thriller Irreversible, Lawrence and I noticed three people leave the theater in disgust. Two of them simply walked out, but the third was a wheelchair-bound man who, of course, had to roll out. So now we always note how many walkouts and rollouts happen at each film we attend. I am well aware of the fact the we're both going straight to hell for laughing at crippled folks, so don't bother sending an angry email.

I'll be posting a full (or as full as I can make it) review of The Good Old Naughty Days, but a few points bear mentioning. First of all, these lasses are in desperate need of some groundskeeping, and I'm not just talking about below the Mason Dixon line. Armpit hair was never sexy and it never will be, so do us all a favor and shave those pits. Secondly, the film contained far too many homosexual blowjobs for a screening this early in the day. (Lawrence later remarked "Doesn't look so bad, does it?" Lawrence, my good friend, you're the king.) Lastly, I never thought I'd sit in a theater and witness a pair of nuns and some priests fornicating with a dog. That's right, a motherfucking dog. Poor old Fido was licking dick, licking cunt and licking just about everything else these sick fucks put in front of him. I think the entire country of France is going to hell for this one, which doesn't bother me one bit.

After blowing our loads on some hardcore French pornography, we ventured across town to the International House to sample some softcore Chinese pornography. The middle flick of our cinematic hat trick was Intimate Confessions of a Chinese Courtesan, an erotic exploitation film from the Shaw Brothers. Reviews of the movie are forthcoming, but I just can't wait to say something about it. I don't often succumb to hyperbole when describing films, but this movie was fucking awesome. It was awesome in the same way that getting sucked off while eating a cheesesteak and watching the Flyers would feel. A brief synopsis: a pair of gorgeous, gorgeous women dressed in the most elegant Chinese formal attire sensually kiss each other and then battle hundreds of armed warriors with acrobatic martial arts moves in a gigantic bloody free-for-all melee. If that shit doesn't get you off your ass and out to the Philadelphia Film Festival, than nothing ever will. Fatass.

I absolutely loved Intimate Confessions of a Chinese Courtesan, but from there the evening only continued to improve. After the screening we met up with all-around great guy Travis Crawford and his long-time friend Jim. Following a discussion of the phantom salami smell that seems to be following us around, we accompany Mr. Crawford to the friendly neighborhood FreshGrocer, the avant garde food market I mentioned in my first Turf Warriors article. After nearly luring us to our grisly traffic-induced deaths on Market Street, Travis attempts to use Lawrence as a guinea pig to test the automatic door at the supermarket. Door 1, Lawrence 0. Once inside I'm immediately unnerved by the general ambience of the place; a more left-wing, hippie-friendly store you simply cannot imagine. Travis benignly orders a turkey wrap, only to find out the designated wrapper is on break. What next?

When the wrap-making guy returns from his masturbation break he promptly begins to make dinner for Travis, who rather unwisely decides to ask for honey mustard dressing. Apparently, honey mustard is like liquid gold at the FreshGrocer and they don't easily part with it. Eventually Travis receives his dinner which, weighing in at around 14 inches, makes even me feel intimidated. We finally leave the supermarket through a gauntlet of automatic doors and then head towards the El station on Market Street. Along the way Travis comments on the local flavor, which prompts Lawrence and I to walk with a little more alacrity. (That one's for you, Jason.) After disseminating SEPTA tokens to all members of our nerd party, we enter the subterranean lair of the Blue Dragon, the Market-Frankford line. I convince Travis that the light in the tunnel is indeed a waiting train, which arrives soon afterward. We all climbed aboard.

Riding SEPTA late at night is never an unremarkable event and tonight was no different. Lawrence whipped out his finicky digital camera and convinced Travis and I to pose for a photo. Following the first shot an incense-selling man, presumably homeless, offers to purchase the camera from Lawrence. After calmly giving him a cock-and-bull story, the man provides Lawrence a phone number and insists that he call. Lawrence agrees (I think he was just humoring him) and the man leaves us in peace to take the rest of our photos. Crisis averted. Lawrence snapped some outrageously awesome shots of Travis and myself, which you can see on the Photo Journal: Day 8 page. The ride takes less than ten minutes, and before we know it we're back in Old City. Almost simultaneously, everyone in our party comments on the masses of horrible, phony, obnoxious hipsters that inhabit the area at night. It's not just me folks; every half-way reasonable person sees that Old City fucking blows ass at night.

We arrive at the Ritz East and part ways. Lawrence and I grab our press tickets for 2LDK and enter the theater, while Travis goes off to scarf down his dinner. The theater is packed by the time we get inside and we're forced to stake out non-centered seats towards the rear. We settle in and scope out the crowd, where we spy comedian David Cross (or his authorized look-alike). We spotted him at the Monday night screening of Mutant Action but were unable to snap a photo or verify his identity. Travis even commented to us about him, and we vowed to get him on film or die trying. (That reminds me, we've got to go kill ourselves.) By now the theater is completely full, and I mentally prepare myself for the hipster crowd to ruin the movie for me. To my surprise, that doesn't happen.

They were fairly well-behaved through the short film Evelyn, the Creepiest Evil Dead Girl. This charming little piece was creepy and fun, starring a girl who looked to me like a cross between Christina Ricci and Fiona Apple. Immediately following comes 2LDK, one of the festival films I had been anticipating the most. I don't often succumb to hyperbole twice in the same article, but this movie was fucking awesome. Lawrence and I will both be posting reviews of the film soon, but suffice it to say that 2LDK rocked my cock off. This is the most wicked, crazy, funny roommate catfight film you could ever hope to see, and it was even better than I was expecting. I sat there for the entirety of the film with a stupid, shit-faced grin. Travis, you really hit it out of the park with this one.

Following the film we exit the theater and heckle Travis as he sits in the passenger seat of Jim's car. They speed off to the International House, happy to hear that we both loved the film. I walk with Lawrence back to the Monsters At Play District Precinct, still beaming from a pair of incredible cinema experiences. Before we get there we meet up with Erica, a long-time friend of Lawrence from his previous job. She hugs him and then, surprisingly, hugs me too. A brief conversation follows, then it's more hugs, then we're off again. While it will likely be lost on you, the reader, this exchange is significant for two reasons. First, Erica hugged me, which has never happened before. Second, she remembered my name, which has also never happened before. I had previously suspected that everyone in the world hated me (especially women), but now I might just start to feel a little less misanthropic on the subject.

Life is good sometimes, if only for brief, fleeting moments like tonight. Distraught over the festivities on Day 5, our zeal was restored anew by a few fantastic moments on Day 8. Three sexalicious films, two subway trips and one homeless salesman punctuated a surreally enjoyable couple of hours. If I had to vote for the best day of the festival I'd have a hard time choosing a winner. The good news is that there are still two screening days left for Lawrence and I, so it is entirely possible that a good thing could get even better. To the 12th Philadelphia Film Festival I say only this: you're the king.