After watching the latest episode of 24 with Ames, we got hungry for dinner. A necessity we'd both somehow ignored despite chili lime chips and Hot Ajvar dip which brought beads of sweat to Ames' pate. That man cannot handle spice. So, rather than order take out, I cooked whole wheat pasta shells with organic "Italian herb" tomato sauce with a side of mixed greens salad and a splash of balsamic vinegar and oil. I do love to cook and I wished I could've made a 3rd plate for SBX, who was tucked far away in her Park Slope bed reading issues of EX MACHINA by the time the water reached maximum boil. Late night dinners are common for artists and so this evening would log another passing of the freelance vs. domestic ships. To compliment our feast, we watched Takashi Miike's AUDITION, which was a brooding, highly moralistic yet skewed psycho-thriller where the last 15-minutes becomes an excruciatingly difficult movie to endure. I wish I could've video-taped Ames' convulsions. He became a 6-year koala bear curled up in the corner of the futon barely able to view or listen to the end of the movie as he shuddered and squealed in spasms. I shouldn't point fingers. There was a moment in the middle of the movie that made me hit the ceiling. I never hit the ceiling. Every time I see one of them Japanese flicks I shake my fist screaming "What has America wrought with Hiroshima!?" As the credits rolled I wondered how much money it would cost to get SBX to watch Asian horror with me? Do they print THAT much cash?