So, this is our latest project and why I've been socially absent. Our new house.
Hubby retired and we're settling into Nevada, home of the Flying Elvis Impersonators, All You Can Eat Buffets, and tacky.
There was a lot to love about this house. And a lot not to love. Over The Top was the previous owner's first, middle and last name. So, we've been working the past couple of months to tone it all down, or in some cases, to liven it up. And because it's Vegas...we kept a little bling. What happens here, stays here, right?
Thought you might like to see.
This was the dining room. I know. Wow. What is that on the walls anyway?
Unfortunately, I'm not a pro photographer. Like I had to explain...
The finished room. It's about the only room that's completely finished.
We're making progress on the living room :
Are your retinas burning?
In case you need a better look at that ceiling....
As it turned out, we had only two choices with this ceiling (living with it was not one of them). We could dry wall over it and pretend it never happened or we could paint over it and cross our fingers.
Here's what we did:
This room is still largely unfinished. So, I will keep you apprised of its progression.
So far, it looks like this:
I figure you've had more than your eyes can handle for one day. Keep checking in. There's a lot left to do and see!
Don't get me started on that landscaping...its life expectancy is about one more week.
For a lot of my adult life, I've professed to be an agnostic. I'm usually too lazy to take a stand, so this fit. But really, what I stood for was atheism. Most of the religious turned me off, regardless of their faith. Still do.
And don't get me started on biblical fantasies. Virgin births? Voluntary crucifixions? Resurrections? Eternal life? Indeed.
I admired Christopher Hitchens, not only for his superior writing skills, but for his steadfast belief in nothing...right up to the end. During the illness that took his life he said, "If anyone hears me retract my atheism, know that I'm delirious and don't mean it."
Then I discovered an uncomfortable truth (are there any other kind?).
It's easy to diss life after death when no one you love is dead.
When my mother died last year, her death was the first to have a real impact. Ours was an uneasy relationship. Complicated. But I loved her. A formidable presence in my life, her absence seemed (and still sometimes does) intolerable.
For the first time, I felt jealous of those with blind faith. I started wondering (hoping) I might see my mom again. Somewhere. But, where?
Then our seven year-old granddaughter Adelia got a crushing diagnosis. The odds are high we will all outlive her. If that doesn't turn your absent theology on its thorny crowned head, I don't know what will.
So, I've had cause to re-examine what I believe.
Not long after my mother's death I found myself on a plane. For reasons I can't remember now, hubby was taking a flight later in the week, so I flew alone.
I'm a nervous flyer, even though I've done it my whole life. Not the white knuckle, head in a bag kind, but I think about dying when I'm in the air in a giant tin can. Who knows what goes on in that cockpit? Why is the door always shut? Anyway...I'm superstitious. I always wear the same jewelry when I travel and I would never get on the same plane with a rock star - everyone knows that's a death sentence.
This particular flight was turbulent. Way more than normal - that stomach dropping, heart stopping turbulence that has everyone's lips moving in silent prayer. Except for mine, of course.
What sticks out in my mind about that trip is the calm. The first thing I thought, well the second after "oh shit" was that my mother had preceded me and would somehow pave the way should the plane go down. She would be there. A tremendous relief trickled down my arms. I spent the rest of the rough flight in peace.
Before anyone gets weepy over my religious conversion...it wasn't exactly that. The hyper religious still pretty much get on my last nerve. Bible stories, to me, are just that. And, I don't believe some guy in a white beard and a toga is orchestrating all of our lives. Who has that kind of time?
I believe that random shit happens.
I believe we sometimes get more heartbreak than we can bear and what doesn't kill us often doesn't make us stronger.
I believe the human condition is frail, terribly flawed, and glorious.
I believe we all have a responsibility to each other and our place in the world.
I believe we don't understand how it all works, what the origins of man really are, or whether or not our behavior impacts the weather.
I believe we make our own hell, here on earth.
I believe our spirits are separate from our bodies and somewhere in the universe they abide.
I believe if we're open to it, the presence of those we loved that have gone before us, can be felt.
Some would say my way of thinking is convenient. I've changed what I believe to fit my circumstances. I'm okay with that.
If faith is "the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen," then I have it.
I believe I haven't lost my mother, nor will I lose my granddaughter. I am assured by this hope and convinced of its truth.
We will meet again...on this side or the other.
We bought our granddaughter, Adelia, a new bicycle for her birthday today.
I'd guess no one gasped after reading that sentence - hardly earth shattering news. Grandparents buy their grandkids stuff all the time. But, this bicycle came at what feels like an intolerable price, in a way that has nothing to do with money.
We have a bunch of grandkids. After the first two girls arrived, we did the usual toy/clothes/crap buying that usually follows for birthdays, holidays, etc. As kids do, they'd lose interest in whatever we'd purchased in about two days. We decided we wanted to give something more meaningful.
We opened savings accounts for them, and all those preceding. So, every year, instead of a pile of junk we put money away for each of them to hopefully entice them to go to college.
No more gifts.
As anyone who has a history with me, or this blog knows - our granddaughter Adelia has lived with an undiagnosed Cerebral Palsy like illness for several years. Specialist after specialist threw up their hands and tossed out CP after ruling out everything else. Ataxic Cerebral Palsy to be exact - which was not good news. They thought...maybe...
The hope held firm in the maybe.
As long as she went undiagnosed with a maybe trailing there was a chance, wasn't there? Maybe there'd be a medication. A therapy. A miracle. We hoped.
Let me tell you what I've learned about hope...it is NOT the thing with feathers that perches in the soul. It's the thing with a boa constrictor's grip that strangles you like prey. We held tight in its grasp, willing and breathless.
So, every year we put money in Adelia's account like we did for everybody else.
After all, she might go to college.
And, every year we'd watch her deteriorate, her struggle more obvious.
But, she could probably still go to college.
This week, after nearly four years, she got a final diagnosis from a round table of some of the best doctors in the world at one of the finest hospitals - they were half right before. She is Ataxic but does not have Cerebral Palsy. It's a different sort of Ataxia with most of the same terrible, debilitating, life shortening, symptoms and some different ones just for shits and giggles. I won't bore you with the details but the fact that this disease made itself known around the time she turned two means its course is more determined, relentless.
Adelia won't go to college.
Somewhere in my head, I knew this already. The temporary CP diagnosis should've gotten us all used to the idea, but I couldn't face it and we kept counting on her future. Her savings account proved she'd have one, didn't it? As long as we kept putting money in it her chances increased. Until they didn't.
The maybe got lopped off.
Now we talk about her quality of life, not its quantity. We're planning for now, not later. We're taking money out of Adelia's savings account to buy her things that she can enjoy now, that might make her living less encumbered.
We're going about it like we need to.
Her new bike is a special needs, adapted bike...a high-tech, raspberry pink, hella sweet ride.
I feel like I'm walking under deep water with lead in my shoes. They call it crying uncle because you're crying while you do it.
Adelia got a normal bike a couple years ago, before her mobility was as challenged as it is now. But still wasn't able to do it.
"Dad...where's the tools?" she'd ask. "That bike doesn't work."
That's Adelia - the bike's broken. She is not.
"She's gonna love that new bike, Mom." My daughter, the unsinkable Kayla Mead, tells me. "She wouldn't ever know what it's like to ride one if it weren't for this," she assures.
I mumbled something, but I don't remember what.
We both go silent.
"Don't be sad, Mom."
Sad? Sad is an aspiration.
I search for comforting words, thinking I've found some, I start to speak but the lump in my throat keeps it down. I stay quiet.
"I'm so excited for her to get it. She'll be so happy," Kayla says. I still say nothing. She prods,"Mom?"
As always, I'm battling tears and Kayla is propping me up.
"Adelia is still with us. We'll have a lot of days ahead of us to be sad," she continues. "But today is not one of them."
The last eight months have been tough. Illness, death, surgeries, retirement, moving...all those serious life changes they warn you about. You know, all the stress inducing ones. In the background, a granddaughter suffering with a debilitating disease and to a much lesser, but still off putting degree, this Mother's Day was my first without a mother.
So, I find myself in a daily quandary, my brain a-jumble. I stare off into the abyss, overwhelmed, hanging on the ledge not really trying to pull myself up. Getting by is fine for now.
I have 3 pairs of glasses and often can't find even one pair. I walk (limp) into a room and can't remember why I'm there. I'll make a phone call and feel surprised when someone I know answers. Making a grocery list feels like writing a thesis.
Yet, oddly, I find myself thinking about Father's Day. Perhaps to get a jump on it, to not forget. Even though my father is dead. My husband is a father, my sons-in-law are fathers...so maybe that's it.
Or, maybe not.
Lately, I've been thinking about my stepfather- who is just as dead as my father. He and my mother were married over 30 years. A miracle of midwestern stick-to-it-ness if you ask me. But, stick with it they did. Until his death several years ago.
I've discovered when you're feeling a little beat down, your brain goes places it never would if you felt stronger. You don't have the energy to keep at bay the feelings you'd squashed before, or you realize in a weak moment you feel differently all together.
Barely a teen when my mother and stepfather married, I felt no love for him. Just a casual disdain that grew into a lazy hatred then settled into an annoyed apathy.
He was an alcoholic. Cruel, unreliable, unpredictable. Both my mother and I knew it from the get go. She married him anyway, as bad men were her comfort zone. I can't say I felt disappointed. Experience had already taught me that fathers were absent, uninterested, unavailable, violent.
He ruled our house in a surly silence, where something always felt like it was moving in for the kill. We waited every night till eight o'clock when he'd stumble off to bed, in a drunken haze and our collective sigh of relief signaled safety at last.
If you'd asked me to list his good qualities, I couldn't have. But, I would've been wrong. He had some. I just never gave him his due credit.
He was the first man to ever tell me I was smart.
He was the only parent I had who told me I could, and should, go to college.
When I got a B in history because my teacher didn't believe in giving A's he drove to the school, without my mother, and had a talk with the teacher. My stepfather was 6ft. 4in, 250 lbs. He came back with my A.
He expected me to get A's and if I didn't, his disappointment could bring me to tears.
He taught me to work. He fought my mother when I wanted to get a job while still in high school. He lost.
He spent all day catching a rabbit for my science project. He was falling down drunk...but this isn't exactly a Hallmark card, is it?
He thought I needed limits set, not money handed out. My mother disagreed.
After he had the stroke that signaled his downfall, he mellowed. He became a loving, adoring grandfather to my daughter's daughter. He'd let her do anything to him she wanted. He never raised his voice or his hand to her. But old habits die hard, and I kept watch, a bundle of nerves when they were together.
She still points to the stars and reminds us that Papa Ed is there among them.
When he finally died, 12 long years later, of various smoking and alcohol related diseases, I felt nothing. Not sad. Not relieved.
Now, I feel something else. Not love exactly. But a grateful affection. Not for the man he was, but for the man he tried to be, but couldn't.
I'm on crutches.
Luckily, its temporary.
I don't think I have the temperament to deal with all the jackasses that come out of the woodwork when you're impaired. I'd be dragged off to jail, hobbling.
Take the TSA.
Me on crutches: "I'm not sure how I'm supposed to go through security."
TSA Jackass: "They'll hold your crutches when you go through the body scan."
Me: "Ummmm...I can't stand up without the crutches. I can't put my weight on my leg."
Jackass: "Hmmmm....they'll give you a cane."
Note to anyone who doesn't know - you can't just give someone who needs crutches a cane and wish them Godspeed. Walking aids are not interchangeable and should be prescribed by someone with an actual medical degree, not a guy with a bully club and a highlighter pen.
Me: "I can't use a cane. That's why I have crutches."
Jackass: "Hmmmm...can you take your shoes off?"
Me: "Does it look like it?"
Jackass pointing: "Well...they'll have to do a full body pat down then. Wait over there. She'll take care of you."
TSA World Women's Wrestling Champion: "Can you take off your shoes?"
WWW Champ (three times my size, pulling on latex gloves): "I'm gonna have to pat you down. Do you want to go to a private room?"
Never go to the second location.
Champ (snapping gloves): "Okay. Raise your arms up at your sides like this." She mimics Christ on the Cross as a helpful visual aid.
Me: "I can't STAND WITHOUT MY CRUTCHES."
Champ: "Hmmm...okay, well...do you have any foreign objects implanted in your body?"
Besides that giant dildo?
Champ: "Okay....well...front first."
So, there in front of an entire airport full of people, the Champ gave me a thorough grope. Zealously serving and protecting her country by ensuring my boobs weren't locked and loaded and a scud missile didn't lurk in my crotch.
Champ: "Can you take your shoes off?"
I thought we'd covered that.
By that time hubby finally made his way through wearing that look he usually reserves for deviants and TSA's. He wasn't allowed to accompany me. He had his own security to maze to meander in case he'd stashed a life threatening quarter in his pocket or the surprisingly deadly extra ounce of shaving cream.
Champ: "I need to put those crutches through the scanner."
Me: "I CAN'T STAND UP WITHOUT THEM."
Champ: "Oh....right...I'll get a chair."
Champ: "Can you take your shoes off?"
After I cried Uncle and hubby helped take my shoes off, Champ swooped off with my crutches. After it was determined I'd stashed no James Bond type foolery in them and I posed no threat to national security, they let us go.
This trip to the airport was the first I'd been on other than therapy. While on it, I saw the light.
For the most part, the general population has an appalling disregard for the physically limited.
They shoved past me to get ahead. Can't possibly go half a second slower.
They ran me over to get on, and off, the elevator first.
They jumped ahead of me to get on, and off, the plane.
For me, this is a minor blip in an otherwise healthy life. For my six year-old granddaughter Adelia, it's a lifestyle. She has Cerebral Palsy and can't walk without braces and a walker. Her everyday life is an exhausting struggle to get from point A to B. God forbid she should ever decide to get away from it all and take a trip where she can expect public embarrassment and complete disregard for her dignity as a rule.
I learned big lessons that day and will forever be on guard. That old cliche is a cliche for a reason. You can't know what its like to be someone else till you've walked, limped, or rolled, in their shoes.
It won't kill me, or you, to take a breath and show some consideration for someone who relies on the compassion of others.
We don't really need to harass the disabled, do we?
I read recently that France has lost its chic. Its je ne sais quoi.
Their President is out of control.
While the French have always looked gracefully, and stylishly, the other way where "the other woman" is involved, particularly Presidential women, de Gaulle forbid he should comport l'affair on a moped, in the passenger seat, wearing a suit with cheap shoes and a giant Daft Punk helmet.
A President cheating on his wife and his mistress with yet a third woman is the height of panache. But, in a bad outfit? Mon Dieu.
The French are up in arms.
I so get it.
There is never an excuse for bad shoes. Except for hip surgery. My once impeccably shod tootsies are mourning their old, fashionable life, when their daily wear looked like this:
The perfect gladiator look. Minus the toga. Wouldn't be caught dead in a toga.
I remembered why these were so awesome in the 80's. Because they're awesome. My leg is coming from who knows where.
Marie Antoinette was so right. Eating cake in these shoes is so much better. That's what she meant, right?
I agree. These are fantastic.
I have hip problems because I apparently only have one leg. But it's wearing an adorable shoe.
There it is! I do have two legs. These are my Goldfinger shoes. I think James Bond would love them.
I'm a sucker for an ankle strap.
Brought these back from Italy. Can you blame me?
A shoe that looks like a velvet corset. Sigh.
Another pair from Italy. Had to.
I can't resist a pink shoe. Or a rhinestone buckle. Or shoes, period.
I hate getting caught on the Yellow Brick Road unprepared.
Gained an ankle strap. Lost a leg.
These are for when I mean business. 5 inches of business.
This is what I'm reduced to after crutches. These might as well be flat. I'm pouting just looking at them.
These are me, now, on crutches. The heel is so non-existent that it wasn't worth showing. Except for its pink. To make myself feel better I bought these in several colors. But still. So, not the same.
If you hear I've bought a moped. Shoot me.
I'm a wreck.
Hair's on end, clothes on backwards, holes in pants (not the cool kind)….that's when I'm going out.
I don't know what's happened to me. Old age? Bad hips? Don't give a shit? All of the above?
Back in the day, you'd never catch me out unless I was fully loaded. Hair done, face on, heels. A trip to the grocery store presented a fashion opportunity, not a dreaded chore. Okay, I didn't always look great at the grocery store.
Or, maybe I did...
Often, I put on a baseball cap and flats for a quick skip to Ralph's or Whole Foods. Of course, my hair was freshly washed, but maybe not blown out. My face wasn't photo ready, but still. A dab of concealer, a hint of blush, a berry lip stain. My baseball cap was cool, maybe something pricey, hard to find, from the early 20th Century, African American Baseball League perhaps - just cause I'm a white girl didn't mean I couldn't get all hip-hop on your ass. And, my flats came from Kate Spade or Tory Burch.
Oh, those were giddy days.
Last week, I made a mad dash to the grocery store. I'd been cooking for days, getting ready for surgery, putting stuff in the freezer for hubby. I waited till the last possible minute to go. I needed the ingredients in, like, three seconds. So, I grabbed my army green drab jacket (Hubby calls me Castro when I wear it) tennis shoes with no laces, and took off.
I didn't look in a mirror before I left. Let's face it. Who cares?
I remembered I needed to pick up a prescription. So, I stood in the pharmacy line, waiting. My head itched. I scratched the top. Ack. When did I last wash it? I groped further back. The hair there felt flattened and matted.
From which night? I looked around, kinda embarrassed. I noted the quarter-ton woman in animal print leggings, tank top, her braless boobs doing a gelatinous dance around her waistband, and shrugged.
Feeling a little better, I patted my hair into place, a reflex I suppose. During the pat down, I hit something crusty.
The hair over my ear stuck stiff to my skin. Without calling attention to myself (I kept the gagging sounds pretty well under wraps) I did some more exploration. Whatever crusted to my hair, clung to my ear. I scraped at it and held my finger out.
WAS I BLEEDING? Did I have blood RUNNING down my head? OMG. I looked around again, thinking I'd see horrified faces, pointing, or someone motioning the paramedics in my direction.
Nope. Just Tina the Tiger in her leggings and long, swaying, boobs, picking the three teeth she still had in the front with a 50% off coupon, not glancing at me at all.
Then I did what primates have been doing since we've evolved from the dirt.
I smelled it. Hmmmm….it didn't smell like blood. Upon closer inspection it looked a little too orange too. I had no choice. I had to taste it.
Marinara sauce... from the pizza I ate at lunch. Huh.
I finished my finger snack, got my prescription, and went on with my shopping.
In for a pound...
If you're ever in the congo and you need the lice picked out of your hair…I'm your girl.
"Can you believe it?" I told my daughter on the phone when I got home. She laughed, loud, for like, five minutes. "I'm a hot mess," I said.
"No, you're not, Mom," she said. "You're savory….a feast for the eyes."
I'm a college basketball fan by marriage.
Ok. That's a stretch.
I've watched a lot of college basketball since I've been married.
Ok. That's a stretch too.
I've been in the room a bunch of times when college basketball is on TV.
Now, college basketball is all over our TV.
It's March, baby! That means it's March Madness time. AKA the NCAA Division One Basketball Tournament. Despite what the name indicates it doesn't start and end in March. It starts in March and lasts a couple of years.
So, now its time to throw your hat in the ring (or on the court) and fill out your brackets! AKA Bracketology. It's the last day to participate. I'm sure that'll put the fear of the basketball Gods into you.
For those of you in the know, Bracketology is a familiar term, and a real word.
For those of you in the dark, it's like those office football pools. You pick who you think is gonna win but you gotta pick winners for every game.
All 64 of them. Whoever picks the most wins…wins.
I win a lot.
And no, I don't pick by favorite uniform color. How dumb would that be?
I use a complicated, detailed, well researched, and delicately balanced system. Never before revealed. Until today. For you.
A peek at my Bracket:
The first thing you need to do is look at the numbers.
The teams are rated by numbers, one is the highest. I have no idea what the lowest number is. Who cares? They call these numbers seeds. Asinine, I know. As far as I know nothing is growing, except my impatience for the whole damn thing to get over with. Anyhoo, if you're a number one seed that means you're the most likely to win.
So, I pick a lot of those top numbers, say one through three, first. Duh.
Occasionally a number ten will beat a number two.
This is called an upset.
Mostly because when it happens no one's picked that number ten to win and they get REALLY upset. Hubby yells at the TV and drinks more.
Now my system gets a little more complicated. Feel free to print.
I always pick Gonzaga because I like to say it.
I always pick Xavier because it's, like, the coolest name ever. Just rolls off the tongue like a fine French wine.
I always pick Kansas because my daughter was born there.
I never pick UNC because their coach, Roy Williams, gets on my last nerve. The few times I've seen him on TV (when I wasn't in a self induced coma) there's just something about him I don't like. To add insult to injury, their team is called the Tar Heels. WTF?
I never pick Georgetown because when I visited there I was disappointed in their restaurant scene. You see my point.
I always pick Wisconsin because my mom was born there.
I always pick UCLA because who doesn't love Westwood? Hip, cool, on the fringes of Hollywood. What's not to love?
I pick Oklahoma because the Pioneer Woman lives there.
I always pick Florida (I've picked them to win it ALL) because Versace's house is there and hubby and I ate a zillion dollar dinner there on vacation once. They have the best drag queens too - which is big.
And, finally, I've taken Duke pretty much off the list because their coach dyes his hair and lies about it. He's almost 70 years old and his hair is pitch, shoe polish, black.
Who ya kiddin, Mike?
No good can come from that, my friend.
Death is an unpleasant event. For all the obvious reasons.
When the time came, finally, for my mother's memorial, I dreaded it.
For one thing, she died four months ago. My hip surgery immediately afterward stalled the date. So, this final piece of business lingered and I had a lot of time to not look forward to it.
I wasn't prepared for the joy.
Or, for my life to change in one day.
My mother's friends and neighbors are old school. When someone dies, they pay their respects. It's how it's done. They don't even have to know you very well. They're there. It's a small town. There's lots of little feuds among them. Nothing too Hatfield and McCoy, but still.
No matter, it's all set aside.
My husband and I hosted a BBQ with all the trimmings. But, here they all came, no one empty handed. They brought their cakes, pies, macaroni salads. It's the first time I can recall that a tray of deviled eggs made me cry.
There's no better balm for the soul than an entire community of people who gather for one common purpose: to share their love with you and your family.
Most everyone had a story to tell about my mom. Some I knew, some I heard for the first time yesterday. Without exception, they saw my mother as her best self, giving, loving, willing to help anyone who needed it.
I hated to acknowledge this ending, and feared I'd have nothing left of my mother when we left. But, this was the most precious gift, their love for her, magnified.
After my husband's beautiful, loving and dignified eulogy, we trudged up the hill my mother'd chosen for her final resting place, my best friend from girlhood, who I hadn't really seen in 30 years, held my hand all the way up. Just like when we were twelve, conquering the world, together.
I felt awash with gratitude for all the people in my life who wish me well, who overlook my faults, who love me and think I have something of value to bring to the table.
Instead of sadness, I felt happier than I had in quite a while, up there on that desolate hill with my family and friends.
A weight lifted, a decision made.
I believe that for most of us, life isn't short. It's long. Misery, bitterness, and anger only make it longer, the load heavier. It's days like this and the people who think it's their job to offer sustenance when you need it, and who offer up a pure heart - those are the things I'll keep.
Everything else, like my mother's ashes, blowing in the wind - I let go.
The blogosphere will be a twitter (that's funny, I don't care who you are) with all things Oscar today. Since I only watch for the red carpet and the monologue, I'm woefully uninformed.
Rather than blather on ad nausea about how Ellen killed (she did) or that Lupita Nyong'o ruled every carpet she walked this season (she did) I thought I'd regale you instead with my view of movies past and present that got a whole lotta lovin' from everyone except from me.
Some, but not all, were Oscar contenders or winners. I think.
1. Citizen Kane:
My name is Kathleen and I hated this movie.
It's entirely possible I didn't get it. It's also likely, given Hollywood's overblown tendency to love itself since the invention of film, that despite the kudos this film gets fifty odd years after its making, it really does suck.
I dunno. I only know that I could barely stay awake. And don't think I wasn't pissed, after sitting on the edge of my seat (or almost falling off the couch after nodding off) to find out who Rosebud was, only to learn she was a sled.
Citizen Crock of Shit is more like it.
Disclaimer- The only thing I've ever seen Orson Welles in that I found remotely interesting was the episode of I Love Lucy where he does a Shakespeare soliloquy and his magic show at Club Babaloo and then Lucy…wait...does this make me seem like a wacko?
Given that revelation, you might want to stop reading here.
The last time I saw a movie with a man in a toga that I liked, John Belushi was wearing it.
I have the sensibilities of a 15 year old boy, perhaps, but this is yet another film that I suspect everyone says they love because they're afraid to say otherwise. It's Ghandi, for God's sake. Or, for Buddha's sake, or Shiva or Vishnu…whatever.
Hunger strikes are a downer, what can I say?
3. The Green Mile:
Remember this one?
It started out as a Stephen King experiment. He sold it in installments instead of as one gigantic novel, which is weird, since every tome King puts out weighs in at about 12 pounds.
Anyhoo, the movie was no different.
In case you need plot points, it told the story of some guys on death row, all apparently misunderstood because I think we were supposed to feel sad they were about to get fried. Especially that one giant guy who had magical powers but not magical enough to make the movie less excruciating.
It went on FOREVER.
By the end I volunteered to get in the chair myself and pull my own switch.
4. The English Patient:
Another film in which I prayed for death. His.
5. Most Woody Allen films:
Never mind his icky personal life. We're talking film here and most of his make me nuts in the first ten minutes.
First of all, he never shuts up. I think his neurotic narcissism is supposed to endear the audience to him. Instead, it makes me want to poke myself in the eye with a sharp stick.
Second, he always has a hot wife or girlfriend. Or, he has a choice of hot wives or girlfriends.
Clearly, its why he writes the scripts.
Third, there is no third.
6. 127 Hours:
That mountain climber guy who cuts his own arm off to get off the cliff. I think most of the audience would've done the same to get out of the theater.
One of those based on a true story films. I've read the guy still mountain climbs.
What a dumb ass.
I might hate this movie because James Cameron is a pretentious dick.
Yeah, that's it.
8. 12 Years a Slave- Two would've been plenty.
IF YOU LIKE THE BLOGS YOU'LL LOVE THE NOVELS IN HER TWISTED CRIME SERIES