Now added to the list of watchables that woo me to sleep other than professional golf: Ghost Rider. I put this on our Netflix queue as I was looking for something to counter-balance the fucked-upedness of Alpha Dog*. I attempted to watch this unreadable comic made into an unwatchable movie twice over the weekend and fell sound asleep both times. My wife made it through the second viewing only to proclaim upon me regaining consciousness, "Wow. That really sucked." Eva Mendes is a black hole of talent; aside from her willingness to show full frontal nudity, no other redeemable qualities can escape from her gravitational field.

* I treat our Netflix queue as if it were a mix tape I was giving to a junior high school girlfriend. Just like I would not put Kix's "Don't Close Your Eyes" and Every Mother Nightmare's "Love Can Make You Blind" back-to-back, nor would I arrange for Requiem For A Dream and Wonderland to be in the same mail drop.

Labels: movies, sleep

The future wife and I spent the weekend knee deep in errands for the impending nuptials, so we decided to take it easy on Saturday night, throw back some Fat Tires and watch Peter Jackson's King Kong. At first I was smitten with the film, enjoying the mindless action, the undertones of bestiality and watching Naomi Watts scream and run about in her moist camisole. The movie than degenerated into a never ending orgy of agony as the final hour dragged on like an introductory statistics course and I found myself wishing Kong would plummet to his death from the Empire State Building like the stupid primate he was. Thanks for taking the mantle from Spike Lee on not knowing how to end a film, Peter Jackson. The future wife tried to keep steam from blowing out of my ears by cheering for Naomi's naked breasts to make an appearance for the sake of my sanity. Alas, it was not to be. I reminded her that epic blockbusters historically never show the naughty bits and that if I wanted to see Naomi's exposed fun bags I would watch 21 Grams. Unfortunately one has to endure a nude Sean Penn, a soul crushing plot and a depressing sex scene for the pay off, but I think it is worth it. At least it is not Monster's Ball. Or Requiem For A Dream.

Labels: engagement, movies, pop culture, wife

My weekend was filled with disturbing programming flashing across the television. On Friday night Monica brought over her fella and some Chinese food over and we all watched Monster. I thought Charlize Theron engaging in lesbianism would soften the disturbing nature of the film (even if said lesbianism was with Christina Ricci who is hot if you are into elf sluts with big foreheads) but I was dead wrong. I have three words for you: tire iron sodomy. (I was guilty of this hot-chick-doing-an-uncharacteristic-sex-act fallacy during Requiem For A Dream, too. I heard Jennifer Connelly took a double ended dildo up the chute and that sounded like something I would enjoy watching. First, I had to endure a smack addict's arm amputation (his limb became black and gangrenous due to his love of the vein candy) and an old woman being committed to a mental health facility for her eating disorder and addiction to diet pills. When the scene finally arrived, it was more disturbing than hot).

Saturday morning I made myself a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and turned on the Olympics in the hopes of catching some Women's Beach Volleyball (Holly McPeak. Yummy). Instead I get the a broadcast of the Gymnastics Trampoline. The competition goes as such: an athlete (use the term athlete loosely) does tricks on a trampoline for an Olympic medal. We need an international competition forum for this? There was a kid named Jimmy in my neighborhood who would have dominated this event in the early eighties. That fucking kid was a wild man on the trampoline. His signature move was jumping off the roof and going into a double flip. I was waiting for a tandem Gymnastics Trampoline event when two competitors had a seat war or played a game of crack the egg. You know this event is not taken seriously when commentators had this exchange:

Announcer #1: Oh! That miscue on the back flip there is going to cost him.
Announcer #2: Yes. What kind of experience do you have with this event?
Announcer #1: Well, I have been jumping on trampolines since I was eight years old.

Labels: a-town, childhood, lesbians, mons, movies, pop culture, sports, weekend that was, wife

My lady and I went to see Miracle yesterday. Movies rarely move me, as most of them have about as much substance as a steaming pile of elephant dung and before yesterday I could count only three instances in twenty eight years of popular cinema viewing where I was touched emotionally:

1. The Empire Strikes Back. After battling Darth Vader in an epic Jedi light saber duel, the handless Luke Skywalker scales the flimsy scaffolding of a weather station high atop Bespin while Vader questions the brash youngster (equipped only with his bad haircut now) about his family tree. Luke learns that Vader is his father. Ridden with denial and hurt, Skywalker jumps from the scaffolding into the abyss of the gas colony.
   
2. Planet of the Apes (Original). Chuck Heston is riding down the beach on his trusty stead with hot piece of mute ass Nova clinging to his back after the apes have freed him. He comes upon an ancient sculpture and stops. He dismounts the horse, falls to his knees, grasps at the wet sand, looks up to the sky and damns all of humanity. Camera pans out to reveal the ancient sculpture is in fact the Statue of Liberty.
3. Deer Hunter. Robert DeNiro, Christopher Walken and a game of Russian roulette. "Didi Mow!"
   

Now Miracle has officially made my list. After standing on his head for the 1980 Olympic medal round and defeating a Soviet team that had won the gold medal for twenty straight years, net minder Jimmy Craig skates to center ice looking for his father in the crowd after he wins the gold medal. "Where is my Dad?!" "He is right there, Jimmy." Fuckin' A.

Labels: hockey, movies, pop culture, wife