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

Yesterday the wife and I took in a Father's Day barbecue and a 100-degree scorcher at my sister's house out on the plains. I stayed inside with the air conditioning most of the day and had a glorious nap as the final round of the US Open played out before me. The male contingent of the barbecue were emotionally invested in the tournament, getting excited at good shots, sizing up the leader board and making the standard comments that professional golf fans make ("He can hit a (insert club here) that far?" or "They all make it look so effortless.") Although I play golf a handful of times each year, I have no desire to watch it played professionally nor do I care if a nobody from Argentina wins the thing. I did discover that professional golf woos me to sleep as if I were an infant wrapped tightly to her warm, bare bosom. Sit me in your rocking chair and sing me a lullaby, professional golf. Your sweet baby boy has a stomach full of bratwurst and needs the sleepy.

Labels: sleep, sports, wife