Skip to main content

Movie time



   My husband and I couldn’t have more different taste in movies. And a few other things. But for the sake of brevity, we’ll stick to movies here. He likes action – the more guns, knives, tanks, ropes and leaps off tall buildings in the film, the better he likes it. My youngest son is still at home and he feels pretty much the same way. This means I’m out numbered. There’s no one joining me while I watch Driving Miss Daisy on the family television. Something like that causes the menfolk to go upstairs to the “other” television where they can sit in an overstuffed chair or even lay on the spare bed and watch the blood flow to their heart’s content. Not me.
   There are a few tough-guy movies I like but that’s generally because really good-looking men are in them. I’ll watch Denzel Washington recite the alphabet just to get a good look at him. And back in the day, I would never have missed an Al Pacino movie. I even had a giant poster of him with the photo taken while he was starring in Serpico. His dark eyes seemed to follow me in my bedroom – the one with the giant, white, furry rug shaped like a foot lying on the red and black carpeted floor. Those were the days. Lately I’m into Mark Wahlberg. I don’t know if it’s his acting ability, his biceps or his devout Catholicism, whatever it is, there’s definitely something there.
   Our taste in movies doesn’t usually create a real problem other than the fact that the spare TV is in our “loft” in what is a pretty small house, which means if you spit at the living room TV from the loft, you’ll definitely hit it. So we end up with dualing televisions with one of us begging the other to, “Turn it down, PLEASE!!!” So much for the “open concept” in our house. Thankfully, my husband’s movie choices are short on dialogue.
   My idea of a great night of television is a Sidney Poitier marathon on AMC. Don’t make me sing “Amen” here. A Patch of Blue and Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner back-to-back is the epitome of good luck in my book. I’m the kind of person who will consult Wikipedia to find out whether Katharine Hepburn’s niece was Joey in Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner or Selina in A Patch of Blue. It’s that important to me.
   My husband just doesn’t get it. He watches a house blow up, three people die in a car crash, or an alien infestation at a supermarket and he’s good to go. I think his logic is like most men’s – you watch the movie as an escape and then it’s over and done. Not so with me. I watch the movie, agonize over the dialogue and the expressions on the actors’ faces and then I ponder it all for the next several days, finally coming to terms with the fact that, as my son often says, “It’s just a movie.” I think I’m going to go Google where Mark Wahlberg goes to Mass.


   My wife collects knickknacks. – Sidney Poitier





Comments

Deb said…
Have Denzel Washington and Mark Wahlberg ever co-starred together? If not, why not?
Unknown said…
now that would be the best....i'm going to have to go Google it now.

Popular posts from this blog

I Like to Call Them Ow-Bows

   It’s a toss-up. Do I write about the fact that if you search “jobless goddess” in Google the dairy goddess and the library goddess come way ahead of me, or do I write about the fact that my husband is incapacitated due to a broken elbow? I guess I’ll go with the broken elbow. Besides, who the hell breaks their elbow anyway? My husband of course.    It started out innocently enough. I, in my desire to lose weight and become the wrinkly, thinner woman I was meant to be, decided we should start up the morning walks again. I prodded him while he was still under the covers. “Come on, let’s do it. You know we have to do this,” I said while tugging on my really sexy yoga pants (which, by the way, never get used for yoga).    To his credit, he got up, pulled on his pajama pants and went with me. We got about a 16 th of a mile past the driveway before he landed in the gravel. I’m talking a bed of gravel. Gravel embedded in the palm of your hand. Gravel ...

He sells sea shells, I wish

   So now rather than being obsessed with fake fingernails I can’t afford, I’m becoming obsessed with checking this blog. I’m pretty sure all 52 views were made by either me or my husband.   That leads me right into the current situation at hand. We need friends. We’re desperate for them. I’ve started handing out my telephone number to people I meet while doing my meager freelance work. They think it’s for the story I’m writing but really it’s in hope that someday they’ll find a reason to call and then I can hit them with, “By the way, do you play cards? Bingo? Gin Rummy?” If I wasn’t so arthritic I’d throw Twister in there.    It’s not so much for me, it’s my husband who likes to have people around. I have become hermit-like since moving here while he has become convinced we could die here and not be found for months. He had friends back in Syracuse but he chose to stay home at night with his loving wife. Now all of a sudden I get the impression he’d h...

Parish the Thought

     I love small towns. When I lived in Parish, New York, there was no end to the reverie, not to mention the constant parades.      We had a Halloween parade through town featuring people of all ages marching in costume along a rather abbreviated parade route. It all culminated at the fire barn where a couple of old draft horses would pull along a hay wagon. Most all town festivities featured the fire barn.       Monday night bingo held there. The caller was a volunteer firefighter prone to bringing on fits of laughter when he drew N 44…which he pronounced as "N farty-far," whereby producing great gales of cackling from the middle-aged women who showed up every week, I think maybe just to flirt with the caller and the other male volunteers who collected their money. Don't get me wrong, I'm not making fun. I spent more than a few Monday nights there myself.      The gas stations served as restaurants in Parish. You...