Movie Review: Wedding Crashers
Yes, I know this movie has been through the theaters and is already been released on DVD, but what could be more timely than a movie review just before Oscar time?
Not that this is the type of movie that the “Academy” typically considers for Best Movie, nor are the stars of this movie the type of actors generally considered for, well, anything. Reedeeming Quality: Chris Walken plays a powerful politician, and anytime Chris Walken is in a movie, delivering his lines in his now caricature-ish manner, that movie is instantly better.
Which doesn’t say that much about “Wedding Crashers”, starring Vince Vaughn, who has been hurled into stardom because he is getting into Jennifer Aniston’s pants, and Owen Wilson, who has done a wonderful job of making something out of nothing his whole career.
The movie’s plot is a standard retread of a Casanova that falls for a beautiful woman, realizes the error of his ways, tries to win her heart and steal her away from another man who is so obviously wrong for her. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not down on the movie because it’s a retread; which movie that Hollywierd releases these days isn’t? All I ask is that you throw me a nugget here and there to at least give me the impression that what I’m seeing is new and fresh.
Frankly, there’s
nothing new and fresh about this movie. I quickly tired of Vince Vaughn fast-talking and Owen Wilson pursing his lips like an over-collagenated Victoria’s Secret model. Yes, I did chuckle to myself a few times and (gasp) even laughed out loud once or twice, but there just wasn’t enough to make me want to sit through the entire thing to see the retreaded ending. My wife and I got up and washed our dinner dishes while the movie played on without us. (Note to reader: Rudy's movie review typically consists of "Yes, it was good; I stayed awake through the entire thing" or "I fell asleep half way through").
So, 2 paws down. But thanks for loaning it to us, Robbie. At least I’m not out any coin, but I'll never get those 90 minutes back.
Not Everyone Hates Us
For those of you keeping score at home:
Us = bicyclists
Everyone = everyone else, including: motorists; home owners; business owners; other cyclists; residents of the small towns that cyclists invade, leaving empty Gatorade bottles and Gu packets strewn along the landscape.
This past Thursday evening I went for a ride on my bicycle. I left the house around 5:30 when it was still light, but dusk was looming. Such is the life of an amateur cyclist:
After putting in my hours at the place that pays my salary, I squeeze in whatever training I think I can get away with without my beautiful wife thinking that I love my bike more than I love her.
Like every other evening when my ride starts during the rest of the world’s commute home, I chose the path of least resistance. Tonioght, it's a 4 lane, 35 mph road through cookie-cutter suburbia that takes me to the middle of now where, Texas, where my biggest concern is whether an armadillo is going to run out in front of me or if this will be the night I get sprayed by a skunk. Until I get there, though, I hope that all the blinkies on my back are enough to get the attention of the driver of the titanic SUVs that fill the drive ways and garages of I’m-As-Rich-As-You, USA. Bear in mind that the closest these vehicles have been to “off-road” is parking on the lawn somewhere.
I’m only a mile or 2 from were I turn off of Madison Avenue and my ride becomes a little more solitary. It’s dusk now and I can see the head lights of the vehicles that are behind me bouncing off the shiny metal of my crank arms when I look down at my feet. Several SUVs pass me in the left lane, all being very respectful of me and giving me a wide berth. I can hear the roar of a diesel engine behind me, revving and relaxing, revving and relaxing as its driver flicks his way through the gears, and the 2 short “beeps” of his horn.
I’m not too worried; any “beep” with only 2 e’s is generally a friendly beep. The more e’s, the more antagonistic, so a “beeep” is less friendly than a “beep”, while a “beeeeeeep” pretty much means “get the fuck out of my way”.
The big diesel, a Lowe’s flatbed lumber truck, swings sloowly around me, pulls in front of me (after neatly signaling his maneuver) and then
slows down. Nothing the driver had done up until this point was even remotely adversarial, so what could he be doing now? He almost seemed to be
waiting for me.
I click into my Big Ring and start to press the pedals a little harder, turning my wheels faster and faster until I catch up to the truck and slip into its draft. The truck starts to speed up, slowly, almost gently. 25, 27, 32 mph, with me getting sucked along behind him. Cars are passing us on the left and I smile to myself because I can feel their surprised, astonished stares as they pass us at 35 mph.
My turn is coming up so I swing off to the left and am instantly buffeted by the blast of the head wind which drops my speed to a meager20 mph. Suddenly, I’m sure I can relate to the disappointment astronauts must experience when they return to the earth’s gravity.
I wave big and tall, my hand over my head as the Lowe’s truck rumbles away, leaving me exhilarated and feeling warm and fuzzy. Just 1 more reason why I shop at Lowe’s over Home Depot (sorry ROF May).
Bonus
It used to be that when I would come across a picture of her, it was jarring and kind of an unexpected, unpleasant surprise, the wounds still too fresh and sensitive.
Now, though, it's a bonus; still unexpected, put pleasant and enjoyable. If I was there for the picture, I go back to the moment and put myself there again, basking in the memory. If it’s a photo I’ve never seen before, I try to imagine what the moment or event was like.
This photo was taken Christmas 2004, just 10 short days after she had her knee replaced. She was still confined to the hospital, but she was granted a day pass by the warden. She had come to loath being in the hospital, its dreary surroundings truly were like a cell to her. And, even though she had to go back in this day, you could see that she was soaking up the time outside and really, really enjoying it, making the most of the day.
So, here’s a bonus I stumbled across today, and it’s too good not to share.
The Mens Room
Nearly time I use a public men's room, I leave shaking my head at the mess and the stink we men leave behind. There are a lot of things about the public men's that puzzle me, but first and foremost, I don't get why men are such freaking slobs when they know that someone else is going to clean up after them - even more so if that someone is getting paid to do so.
For the sake of this discussion, I am going to exclude out-houses, rest stop and gas station restrooms, and any other restroom that we typically expect to be a sewer. In fact, I'm going to rise high above the stereotypically stinky restroom and start with the public restroom in the building where I work.
It's a small building, relatively speaking: 2 floors, maybe 5 businesses and less than 20 guys. Professional guys, not 20 chimpanzees (who, by the way, are notorious for flinging their fecal matter), not 20 inbred brothers from Mississippi (who, by the way, have never seen a terlet that flushed). No, these 20 guys are supposedly educated, weren't raised by gorillas and, one would presume, would have a shred of courtesy and decency.
Let's start with the small things: boogers. It seems that men (and I am assuming that all men everywhere are represented by the 20 in my control group) only think to pick their nose when they are standing in front of a urinal, holding their pecker in one hand. I've never experienced this myself, but one would think that the urinal activates a deep seated, hypnotic command to start mining. Problem is, when you've got your willie in one hand and a booger on the other, where does the harvest go? On the wall, of course, just like you would that 20 pt buck, for everyone to see and admire.
Another urinal issue is that people tend to use it as a trash can, from the dry cleaner tag that was discovered when trou was dropped to gum that the flavor has been chewed out of. I always thought the urinal was for fluid only, but I guess I'm wrong, because when I see trash in the urinal, it's always gone the next day; somehow it makes it through the urinal screen and the blue block that must have been designed with only back splash in mind.
Why is it that the burliest of men always cower in the corner, back turned away from the world in case, heaven forbid, someone actually sneaks a peek at Mr. Happy? What they say must be true about the girth on one’s body negatively impacting the perceived girth of the twig.
How come most men feel it necessary to defile the urinal before/while urinating? This usually takes the form of coughing up a green one and spitting in the urinal, like this gesture is really showing the urinal who’s boss.
I never get why some guys use the stall for number 1 when a there’s a vacancy at the urinal. These must be the same guys that cower in the corner, so, instead of me making fun of them for cowering, I'll make fun of them for standing in the stall. Perhaps these guys have experienced the passionate throes of Prison Love and feel safer peeing in a locked stall?
I’m especially disappointed at the amount of trash on the floor in the stalls at my office restroom. Usually this trash takes on the form of wadded up, unused toilet paper (thanks at least for that) or candy wrappers. Hello? You’re sitting on a trash can that flushes! Do you have any idea what the ladies are putting in their toilets? I think a little extra TP can be handled nicely by the 26 gallon commercial flush, ya know?
I used to think that the restrooms that had no privacy stalls were off limits for me. Not that I want to be on display while evacuating, a la Private Pyle in Full Metal Jacket, but toilets with no stalls would keep everyone a little more honest, don’t you think?
Ever notice how many guys don’t wash? Maybe it’s my OCD popping up again, but I’m surprised that our office building hasn’t been quarantined for some kind of fecal bacteria outbreak: Turd Flu.
Finally, I never get the guys that come in and use the restroom while they are chatting away on their cell phone. I can only think of a hand full of people that I have the balls to talk to on the phone while taking care of business and none of them are people I call for business. It’s bad enough to see someone talking while standing at the urinal – they just don’t flush (thanks, bro) – but when some guy is squatting on the porcelain throne and talking…? It’s too much. He must explain the pause while he pushes as a moment he’s deep in thought. I guess that dude never flushes, either, as that would be a dead give away. “What was that noise?” “Oh, that? I’m listening to a presentation on the causal analysis of the global warming trend on the water temperature at Niagara Falls and how it's affecting the economy in Turkistan. It’s really quite intriguing…”
Ever wonder what the bathrooms at these guys homes are like? Think there’s wadded up crack wipe in the floor of Icky Mike’s can? Boogers on the wall and…well, maybe if you knew Mike, that wouldn’t be so far fetched, but what about the rest of those guys?
