I make it a point to not document date nights on the blog, but twice since we’ve met we’ve ended the night, writing little weirdos that we are, with “You’ve got to blog about this. HOW do you even… I can’t wait to see what you write.”
The first time, we ended up backstage at a Def Leppard concert, care of Phil Collen. It never made it on the blog. I just wrote the story and sent it to myself, because I never thought I did it justice.
Hey Ryan, have you checked your Facebook recently? Your friend at SPAC just told you about your awesome seats and backstage or special access somethings. “WHAT? WHAT?” Cue jumping up and down. Cue getting in car. Laughter as a megaphone gets held up to the driver-side window. “I HAVE TO TELL PEOPLE.” Our tickets are at the VIP/Band window. We are the biggest nobodies to be somebodies at a Def Leppard concert in their 34-year history.
We’re really easygoing people. I might’ve shown up to Monday date night makeup-less wearing Converse and a backpack. My dinner of choice last night was a hot turkey sandwich.
Then we walked down the street to the movie theater.
This is the theater we saw War Horse at a few weeks ago. One screen, floor and balcony level seating (by the way, sit on the balcony but don’t you dare sit in the front row and put your feet up on the rails).
One screen means one movie playing.
This Means War.
Sure, why not.
We’ve managed to take ourselves to some good movies – Midnight in Paris, War Horse, Oscar Movie Shorts. Respectable movies for people who like to think and write. But we’re not snooty high-brow movie watchers – the last movie we watched together was Tommy Boy.
And, my favorite movie scene in the history of all wonderful cinematic classics?
Side note, I remember my parents watching The Wedding Singer at home when it came out. I was sitting at the kitchen table making a train out of popsicle sticks. I made Andrea watch it the week of college graduation, as if we didn’t have enough going on already. “You haven’t seen…?”
But back to This Means War. Let’s talk about it.
In hindsight and this morning’s research, it’s a movie with a 25% Rotten Tomatoes rating. It hasn’t made its budget back yet.
But we didn’t know that.
This Means War is described as a romantic action comedy film (“We’re going to vaguely cover all bases – one should stick”). If it were funny. If the action weren’t bizarre. And if the writing was romantic in the slightest – I aw’d when one guy got the girl and then realized I don’t even like any of them. At one point, Reese Witherspoon’s character is held hostage (if you can call it that when she is allowed to drive in her own car) and the good guys face having her head sent back on a platter.
Come on, now. You know they’d never do that to Reese Witherspoon.
This movie might have been mildly better if I found either of the lead actors attractive. But I didn’t, I don’t.
And every once in a while, the romantic line would sound something like I might say – maybe – but from them it was cringeworthy, and all I could think was “God, I hope I don’t sound like that. Do I sound like that? I’m not saying anything nice to him tonight. Not if it sounds like that.”
Skype conversation: Mom and Sister – Ryan and I
Sister with a Boyfriend: “Yeah! We’re good, and then we’re bad, and then we’re great, and then we’re okay, and then really good! And then bad… How are you guys?”
Us: “You know, we’re good, and then we’re good, and then pretty good, and then, yeah, we’re good!”
We’re also big annoying jerks.
The movie would suck me in for brief moments, as Chelsea Handler would tell Reese Witherspoon to pick the man that makes her a better woman. You tell her, sister!
Wait, five minutes ago, you told her to pick the guy that was better in bed.
That’s right, I still hate you.
We were hung up on different things. Ryan struggled with Chris Pine picking up Reese in the DVD rental store. Not realistic. Pick her up at the grocery store’s outdoor Redbox while three sketchy people are staring? Believable.
Both of us sat there saddened by the fact this movie had a 65 million dollar budget as we claw our ways to various forms of publication/recording/illustration. Let us take the next script. We could do it. We’re mildly witty people.
A few weeks ago I told the boys in the band I was not getting involved in band affairs. “I don’t want to be Yoko.” I laughed at myself when I said it. Obviously ridiculous, historically inaccurate, yada, yada, yada.
The movie boys got in a fight over who was in “love” with Reese Witherspoon.
Oh, I love a good, flaky “I love you.”
They fought for all of a day.
And then she realized what was happening. And then she said it.
“Oh my god. I’M YOKO.”