May
8
An objective analysis of the dateability of the male Avengers
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Captain America. Annoyingly gym-addicted, votes Republican, is forever pining for his ex. Waxes his chest.
Thor. Favorite activities include: smoking a bowl then describing the unparalleled genius of Metallica’s Ride the Lightning album, calling in sick to his job at Guitar Center, hitting you up for rent money.
Ironman. Entertaining to be around until you realize his favorite person to talk to is himself. Proposes a threesome with your best friend. Wears expensive loafers without socks.
Hawkeye. Has a large collection of military memorabilia. Claims MREs actually taste good. Inevitably demands to show off his “William Tell” technique after he’s had a few beers. Prone to erectile dysfunction.
Loki. Uses your hair gel. Owns 5200 Europop CDs. Says his favorite author is Ayn Rand.
Bruce Banner. Incapable of wearing a crisply ironed article of clothing, has the tendency to gaze soulfully over the edge of a wineglass. Gets pissed easily, but amazing makeup sex.
Jan
18
Personal Jesus
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“That was like being cornholed by Jesus,” JB said as we were crossing the parking lot to our car.
I can’t disagree, really. While the first twenty minutes or so of Book of Eli seemed promising, if annoyingly over-stylized (please note, when the End of the World As We Know It happens, the skies will be run through a heavily tinted filter and everything will look like a broodingly grainy music video, which is good news as I’m sure all the radioactivity and such will be harsh on the skin), the last twenty minutes were a butt-reaming straight from the heavens, complete with water-into-wine plot craziness and a carry-on-Christian-soldier final scene that drew actual applause from a few scattered audience members who apparently get spiritually moved by sinewy, duck-lipped actresses wearing improbably flattering post-apocalyptic clothing.
Even stoic, ass-kicking Denzel couldn’t save this Mad Max trainwreck, nor could the campily entertaining old-people-in-the-desert shootout in the middle which seemed to be randomly directed by Quentin Tarantino, and I’d like to know just when Gary Oldman hung his formidable acting chops in the coat closet and told his agent to accept any paper-thin villain character that comes his way, and seriously, MILA KUNIS IN END-OF-THE-WORLD SKINNY JEANS.
So there was that, a 7:15 viewing of Book of Eli, which I heartily recommend to anyone looking to test their faith. Beforehand, we spent about an hour and a half rambling around trying to find something to do between dinner and the movie, before (re)learning that everything in suburbia shuts down at 5 on a Sunday night, even the eternally ransacked-and-depressing Old Navy. Oh, and we had eaten at a conveyor belt sushi place, where we were the only patrons yet were inexplicably treated to Japanese techno at top volume. The plates rotated as sadly as the last items in baggage claim, where you stare and stare, hoping to find the one thing you’re looking for, but you only see the same five unappealing objects over and over again.
Total babysitter bust, is what I’m saying. The best part of the evening was when we came home, forked over the massive wad of cash it takes for us to leave the house without kids in tow, and turned on 30 Rock.
Not a stellar end to the weekend, but everything else was worthy: I ran 14 miles (!) on Saturday, we did a lot of cooking, the boys continued in their quest to send one another to the emergency room. Also, Dylan made a boat:
(Forgive me, but I can’t look at this—the clasped hands, the ear-to-ear smile—without hearing WHEEEEE in my head.)
How was your weekend?
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