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Thursday, 28 July
We Are Occasionally Family

Tomorrow my parents come to town! I'm looking forward to seeing them, as, being who we are--that is, a pretty low-maintenance family--it's been a while.

I know a lot of people who talk with their families once a month, once a week, even once a day--this I find pretty freaky--but our family (I'm an only kid) just isn't that way. I'm pretty sure we've gone for six-month stretches where we didn't phone or email. And not because we hate each other . . . it's just not really that big a deal, I guess. When we do visit, Mom does insist on taking some pictures, and we pose for them, of course, because hey, it's Mom, but really, Dad and I could care less. I mean, it's not that I dislike looking at these photos or anything . . . it's just that, as my Dad once said about these infrequent photo shoots, "Christ, I remember what we all look like anyway."

Which is also kind of funny, since he's a professional photographer. Me, I am absolutely as far from being a professional photographer as it gets. I would need exhaustive hours of training in order to even be called a barely adequate photographer. I have the magical ability to ruin any shot at all. I took one gorgeous picture in my life, and I have it framed: it is an early morning shot of a tower in Brugges--it's a study in grey, and in mist, and the Gothy tower stands in the hazy distance like a ghost of a building. It really is a wonderful photo, and never fails to evoke the memory of that magical vacation, especially where at the top of the photo I thoughtfully included part of my thumb.

Anyway! Family's coming for a short visit. I've already got tickets for a Friday baseball game, where we will be seated right off the third base line to watch the mighty Seattle Mariners do solemn battle with the fearsome Cleveland Indians. Which I assume will be a lot like watching an enactment of a Matthew Arnold poem: ignorant armies clashing by night.

But who cares? We'll be there at the ballpark (and I must admit that Safeco is a beaut), eating some dogs and drinking some beers--the game is nearly incidental to such an immersion in Americana. We will have a good time even if the woeful players on the field all suddenly decide to form a kickline and punch out a few numbers from Pippin. I'll be there with the wife, and Dad--a professional dog burglar (not at all like a cat burglar--any fool can steal a cat, for God's sake), and Mom, who, back in the Seventies was a hand model until a horrible thresher accident, but who then came back triumphantly as a popular wrist model. (She loses more damn watches . . .)

Oh, and I'm sure Mom will insist on a few photos, and Dad and I will roll our eyes, but then pose anyway, out of familial duty. And it's all for the best. Later on, I can pull out those shots with the wife and say, "Aw, remember that night? At the baseball game? What a great shot." And she'll reply, "Yeah. Look at your thumb there. It was a good night for your thumb."

Yeah. I sure hope so.

Tuesday, 26 July
Putting The Fun In Funeral Homes

On Sunday, the wife and I had a little birthday gathering to attend--summers are always of course lousy with damn birthdays; presumably because of the joyless weather in winter leading to the old, "Hmm . . . might as well fuck, I guess" syndrome--at around 8:00.

My tendons moaned at this idea. 8:00! Sunday! What do I look like, Disco Stu? Good God, people, that's prime prune-sucking time for people like me! Also, I knew that none of our friends would take that time seriously. Theater peoples' time-sense features a mindbending sort of elasticity. (I once had a friend who was taking me to the airport make a side trip along the way to drive me to a bloody fucking audition for a part that he thought I was a good fit for. "The director says he can give you ten minutes right now!" he exclaimed. "We have plenty of time." He then drove me to a bar, where the director was sitting with a beer, and soon I was drinking one too, gulping it down while looking worriedly at my watch. After the beers, we went to the nearby theater, where I auditioned--as promised--very quickly, and found myself in a scene featuring me riding a prostitute like a horse. Only then did we finally dash off to the airport, where I barely caught my plane. Later I found out that I had also gotten the part. So I couldn't even be that outraged about it. Also, later, my friend who waylaid me told me what sold the director on me for the part. Director's quote: "Can you believe it? He was the only damn guy who rode the fucking whore.")

Anyway. We knew showing up at eight would be stupid, so we timed it to get there around 8:20. We met the birthday girl H. and her boyfriend T. right on the street corner. They had just shown up, of course. We walked into the bar. I noticed that we were still the first ones there. Naturally.

The bar we went to is called The Chapel, so named because it is a reconverted funeral home. Like, old school--dark wood everywhere, twenty-foot-high vaulted ceilings, and a hilarious Brobdingnagian bar crafted out of repurposed slabs of marble, hopefully not robbed from the dead--the bar top came up to my nipples, and its semicircle is dotted with absurdly high chairs on which to uncertainly teeter while staring down at the hoi polloi at the regular tables. Top o' the Underworld, Ma!

The place is amusing in a kind of sinister, Teutonic way, and the improbable, faceless dance music being pumped out by some DJ locked in a coffin upstairs somewhere only made it weirder. NNDT!--ss!--NNDT!--ss!--NNDT!--ss! came the bad music, and I kept waiting for Charon the Groovy Boatman to boogie up to me and pry my jaws open in search of a penny before shoving me into a battered flat-bottomed boat for my final ride into Tartarus over the River Styx. I imagined his Death Boat radio would also, of course, play Styx.

Also sinister was the drink menu. Drink menus are really never anything but useless except for listing, say, daily drink specials. This one was no different. Page one listed a numbing litany of horrible martini crimes, like Cucumber martinis and Combed Ass martinis and the like. I rid myself of the awful menu as quickly as possible and asked for a regular old fucking Sapphire martini. It was eight dollars, and I heard my shuddering, 36-year-old heart wheeze as it unhappily pumped a few more pints of grey blood out into my unsturdy arteries. Eight dollars. This fucking town. My nerveless hands reached for my wallet and I whitely opened a tab.

Back at the table, the rest of the group had enthusiastically embraced the dreaded drink menu, and were consuming things like Appletinis, which always sounds to me like the circus acrobat group that probably died the week before Dick Grayson's parents bought it (CIRCUS FREAKS MOURN LOSS OF OWN; APPLETINIS FINIS). One fellow was drinking a concoction called the "Redrum;" I didn't have the heart to ask what was in it. He called it a "Murder."

"I'm drinking MURDER!" he pronounced, in Vincent Pricean tones.

"What does murder taste like?" someone said.

"It tastes like coconut!" exclaimed his girlfriend, after a sip. In my mind, I imagined Lenny Briscoe squealing on some lost episode of "Law & Order" that murder "tastes like coconut," but remained silent, because I'd like to keep my friends.

We didn't stay long. It was, after all, becoming perilously close to 10:00 (on a Sunday!), and we really needed to get home before the light failed totally and our atrophied, late-30s rods and cones left us hopelessly night-blind and lost. I could just see us on the roadside, gaping like zombies, and begging for cold oatmeal from passersby.

Before we left, I did remember to ask about H.'s birthday. She reported that it went well, and was relaxing. T. had gotten her some lovely gifts. T. murmured to me that I should ask her what exactly she had wanted (and received.) Okay.

"What did you get?" I asked H.

"Tires," she replied. I stared for a moment.

"Like car tires?" I asked.

"Black gold!" she crowed. (Really.) I didn't know what to say.

"I really needed tires," she explained.

Ah.

I decided that I'd better have one more drink before we left.

Thursday, 21 July
Might As Well Jump

I apologize to my tens of readers for the long delay in posts, but you see, last night the wife returned home from her Connecticut safari, and really, thank God, because I was just about out of clean whiskey glasses. (Okay, you got me, I was way out of clean glasses. Having run through all of our bowls as well, by Monday evening, I was drinking Bushmill's out of an old tire. Which, I am happy to report, has been thoroughly cleaned now. By the wife. Her hands look like cooked shrimp now, but at least I'm not finding slivers of steel belting in my gums any more.)

It was fairly horrible while she was away, and not just because of the substandard whiskey receptacles: I possess, after all, a theater major, and so naturally spent a few years drinking moonshine directly from the rancid toilet bowls of hillbillies--we've all been there. (Any of you guys been to Hector's, down in the holla? You know the place--he's the guy who decorates his gin toilet with Chiquita banana stickers, and sometimes pisses on the back of your head when you're leaning down for a slurp. That guy!)

But I'm glad to say that it wasn't all horrible. This last Monday I took the old hacksaw to the prison-imposed ankle device that I assure you I wear only as a fashion statement, and went out for a rocking and rollery concert! A delightful band was playing nearby called the Go! Team, whom I do adore for their odd car-crash dancy songs that feature elements of practically everything--I wouldn't have been surprised had someone started playing a lawnmower onstage.

But first, of course, we had to endure the opening bands. Why? Why do we put up with these oafs? Nobody knows.

We got a weird rap band of sorts first up, which prompted this comment from me: "This is what Smash Mouth would be if they were a hip-hop group." For some reason, the DJ members of these bands always depress me. They're stuck there behind those damn turntables, unable to move or do anything interesting except exude utter coolness, and I always get this fantasy about going down and smashing all their records while they wail like Burgess Meredith when he busts his glasses at the end of the world, and he can't read any books after all.

I sure am a swell guy. Anyway, that went on for entirely too long. Then the next band that nobody in the whole building except for those skeevy blondes who inevitably crowd any stage cares about came on, and they performed what sounded an awful lot like old ABC songs to me. A couple of my friends announced their intention to go across the street to a local dive. "The beer is cheaper there, and it's not 1987 either. We'll come back at 11:30." Sigh. The crowd was clappable and nice and all that, but Jesus. Opening bands.

And you also have to understand what a deeply weird town this is when it comes to music: we are famous for NOT DANCING. For anyone. I swear to you that Bootsy Collins could show up in your private basement party and rip off some unbelievably funky bass riff that practically sets your nuts on fire, and most Seattleites would simply nod their heads up and down, standing in place. We should all be forced to wear monocles and starched collars in public. This is how non-dancey and hopelessly too-cool we are. The grunge sensation--for who wanted to dance to grunge? And who was even physically capable of it?--has a lot to answer for. It basically exsanguinated the entire musical community. How the fuck do you dance to the Screaming Trees?

I watched the Go! Team do their thing as I did--yes--my own chin-nod horseshit along to the great songs from the balcony. I started to get really into it, and, bless my soul, found myself jigging around with my hips, and shuffling my feet. Others around me were doing the same, and the band members were trading off instruments like they were baseball cards, and everyone played everything, except for that one hot drummer girl--for are not female drummers hot?--and besides, they had two drummers anyway!

And at one point--being on the balcony--I looked out over the crowd. It was thrilling. Because they were moving. Up and down, they were going crazy! Lester Bangs described in a great article about the Clash how pogoing is a totally natural reaction when you're in a crowd where lateral movement is not an option, and while I wasn't seeing Clash-like vehemence, what I was seeing was a transformation of a dead-eyed, head-nodding bunch of goobs into a very improbable mass of people moving, moving. It made me grin. And it made me jump up and down.

We ask a lot of things from music. It's rare that we get any of it. But sometimes you get to--have to--jump up and down.

Thursday, 14 July
As I Lay Blogging

The wife, I am miserable to report, is absent for the next six days or so. Turns out her brother's family in Connecticut is undergoing some real turmoil--everything is okay, everyone is fine, but there are medical issues going on--and she heroically flew out there to help with her bro, his wife, and their two small boys. I talked with her briefly today from work, and also my little nephews-in-law, who had this to say about seeing their aunt: "Peanut butter sandwiches are good." Good to know. My bitter heart did just about break, I must say, though, when little A. breathlessly spoke to me: "Hi I am reading Harry Potter now and I am going to be Harry Potter I think because I have all the books!" And I said, because I'm worthless on the phone even with adults, much less little kids, "Wow! You have a lot of reading to do. I should let you get back to it!" (Read: Please put my wife back on the phone.) And he said, "Okay! Goodbye! I love you!"

The damn kid has met me once, when he was the ringbearer at our wedding. I doubt he could pick me out of a lineup. I know that it's a rote thing that little kids are trained to say, especially to "family," but Jesus Christ if I didn't feel like a frozen turd all day for just gaping into the receiver, even though the damned tot almost certainly threw the phone back at the wife's head and went off to go spear frogs or something. Stupid adorable kids. This is kind of why I don't want any. My mind is already horribly bent. I don't need any help.

And anyway, the wife has a lot to answer for. For one thing, the garbage is really piling up. Who's going to take this shit out? I might call the condo board. I assume they have a service.

For another thing, it took less than twenty-four hours to confirm that I simply cannot take care of myself. I mean, at all. Last night, when I went to bed, I set on the alarm. Good show, old bean! Corking! Too bad it was set for the wife's normal waking hour, which is a good hour later than mine. So I got to work an hour late. I emailed the department: "Sorry, I'm an hour late getting into work today, thanks to my suck-ass wife, who is in Connecticut, and failing to take care of me."

Not a good way to start the day. Even worse was ending it: on the way home, I walked by two--two!--old ladies rummaging through garbage cans. Is there anything worse than seeing little old ladies scavenging through trash for . . . I don't even know, really. One of the women surfaced with a bus schedule. This depressed me even further. It horrifies me to see shit like this. That's why I normally make the wife go out fishing for dumpster treasures. But she's not here! You see my situation.

Then I bought a book about rats. It is called "Rats." This should improve my lot.

Clearly, I am going to be dead before my wife comes back. Devoured by rats, and surrounded by substandard garbage. It's going to be a rough weekend, particularly for my neighbors, since I suspect that I am going to be one smelly-ass corpse.

Tuesday, 12 July
White Room

On Saturday, the wife and I drove out to an idyllic little spot for her little brother's wedding. I wore one of my three suits that I get to wear about twice a year, and happily, the weather was gorgeous: they were having an outside wedding, on a gazebo, which I like to believe is because "gazebo" is a really funny word.

We showed up very early, partially to soothe the nerves of the bride and groom--we're here! Two hours early! See!--and partially because we were bringing a little table they needed to use for the ceremony. And we spotted them right away, as we were hauling the little table to the gazebo: they were being ordered around by an imperious harridan with a camera. They both wore tight smiles as we passed them. The wife called out in good humor, "Hey, you're not supposed to see the bride before the wedding!" The camera-wielding harridan shot back, "You're not supposed to see her!"

The wife later confirmed with me that that was the very instant we formed an utter dislike of the woman. Fuck you, lady, we thought. Without this INCREDIBLY IMPORTANT little table, nobody gets married today!

And anyway, her remark was dumber than hell, as we found out an hour later. While having a glass of wine before things got started--like I say, we got there early, which was fine--we were suddenly summoned by the wife's neice to report for photos. Right at the entrance of the building, a charming brick edifice. Where fifty fucking people were all standing, gawking as the awful photographer barked out orders to all and sundry to pose with the bride and groom. We weren't supposed to see her before the wedding? Jesus Christ, any dipshit driving a pickup in Woodinville can see her. And, oh, who gives a fuck anyway?

The incredible, never-ending parade of photos continued, and the bride and groom soldiered on grimly as a baffling number of incredibly specific shots were set up, in no apparent order. "Now the bride's family! With the bride! Great! And now with the groom's family! [My one shot. Woo.] And now the bride with her grandparents! And now just the bride! And now the bride with her little brother! No, never mind that, I don't like that kid! And now the bride and the groom with a lizard! And now with the bride holding a jar of piss! And now the bride hitting the groom with a rolling pin while he eats a hoagie!"

Later, I whispered to I., the groom, "Man, this is why we didn't do this shit." He rolled his eyes at me in silent commiseration, and then expressed his desire for the photographer's gruesome and timely demise. She haunted the rest of the damn evening with this sort of horseshit.

As for the bride, S., I can only suppose, but she wore a real glare of hatred during the photographic ordeal (during the lulls, of course), and who can blame her? She had to be in every fucking shot; wedding ritual demands it. Brides have it both good and bad in a unique way during weddings: they are, like it or not, the entire focus for the whole fucking night. There's no getting around it. And I say this without rancor--it's not a job for the faint of heart. And I also say this as an actor, who is accustomed to the spotlight, but this kind of attention is daunting as hell: it's like a one-person show that lasts eight hours where there are no intermissions and you are the star, and God help you if you so much as absentmindedly pick your nose. Because there you are, on camera, forever, and now you're starting to wish you could have that photo back of you with the jar of piss.

The groom? Well, it is of course also his night, but let's not be dumb about this. It's a lot like what I imagine being a male porn star is like. Sure, you have your place there, and a job to do, and most of the time there are functionaries who will go get you water or whatever; but never, ever forget these things: you're really not there to talk much. Most everyone there wants to watch the girl. And, also like porn, it's really embarrassing for everyone if you wear athletic socks.

And of course despite all my snarking, it was a pretty damn fun night. Sitting in the front row for the ceremony was quite exciting, particularly when the pastor (my father-in-law, miked for the outdoor crowd) got started: "WELCOME!" he screamed maniacally. "THANK YOU ALL FOR COMING!" Of course he didn't scream; we were just sitting right in front of the damn speakers. But it scared the bejesus out of us: the wedding party had it worse--they were standing two feet in front of the things. It must have been like 25 minutes of Krakatoa for those poor bastards.

And so we ate, and we danced, and we behaved like people always do at these things. The wife's mom wanted a picture of us dancing, and so I did, though I protested that I looked like a "monkey on a hot plate" doing so. The band was even pretty good, and played the usual standard rock songs, and some unusual ones: there was very little dancing while the guitarist improbably performed a note-for-note reproduction of Eddie Van Halen's "Eruption," which struck me as hilarious. I kind of wanted the keyboardist to respond with his interpretation of what a deer sounded like when killed by bowhunter Ted Nugent. It would probably be just as danceable.

And so, and so. I. and S. cracked some Dom Perignon, and danced, and toasts, and cake, and bouquet, and garter, and all that. They seemed to be having a tremendous time, as well they should have.

You see, by this time, the photographer had left.

Thursday, 07 July
Grooming

The wife's little brother is getting all MARRIED and stuff this Saturday! Aw! The li'l bastard's all done and got growed up! And by "li'l" I mean "gigantic," because the kid is a big boy and could squeeze me into fettucini if he felt like it. Anyway, he is, fortunately, a great guy, and his ladygal (or, as we said in high school, his "throwdown") is a peach, so this is all a good thing. Unfortunately, I torched my whole savings this month buying comic books, so we're only getting them a couple of soiled dishtowels, so I think we'll sign our gift as "Love, Anonymous."

The wife will be reading a sonnet during the ceremony--"Shall I compare thee to a bale of hay?/ Thou art as scratchy and as rectangular." Something like that. (For some reason, I was not asked to read anything.) Ah, the whole thing makes me tear up. And so, for my young brother-in-law, I have decided to compose some invaluable wedding advice, gleaned from my two-year stint as the acknowledged World Champion of Husbands.

--Remember that "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus." This is very important. When you're in the mood to dig elaborate canals on the surface of the planet to confuse future Earth scientists, remember that maybe she just might want to sit down, kick back and breathe some methanated/ammoniated atmosphere. Compromise is the key.

--Don't be a jerk: Commit your mistresses' phone numbers to memory rather than programming them on speed dial. If you really, really can't keep the damn numbers straight, at least have the decency to use false names in the "Name" field. Examples: "MITSRESS", "BOOBS+++", or "HOT PORKIN' GAL #2."

--Let's face it: doing the dishes sucks. She shouldn't have to do them all the time. Every now and then--say, twice a year--give her the night off and say, "Honey, I've got these tonight. You can go clean the toilet instead." You're suddenly a prince! And while she's scouring out that bowl, take the opportunity to demolish all the dirty dishes. "Oh, honey! I dropped all of our plates and bowls onto the concrete outside!" Then buy new dishes. Winky winky!

--Wives should be made to feel "special." Enroll her in remedial reading courses as soon as possible. Unless she's a total dumb-bomb, she is going to rake in gold stars.

--Sex is always a touchy subject, and so, is best avoided. If the subject comes up, pretend you are having a stroke. When this ruse has run its course of usefulness, and the wife begins to doubt even your most energetic thrashings, I'm afraid that the only solution is to actually have a real stroke. This may sound drastic, but there is an upside: stroke victims are rarely expected to do the dishes or clean the toilet. High five, dude! (Gotcha! You can't raise your arms! Har har!)

--Lots of women do not like smokers. If you smoke, you should quit. (I do this several times a day, and it is a thrill for my wife every time.) If you do not smoke, begin smoking immediately. After a few months, quit. She'll be thrilled! Then begin using chewing tobacco, because you're hooked right through the bag, son.

--Finally--I cannot stress this enough--your days of checking out women on the street are over. It's really rude to be ogling other women, my friend. It's the hard truth. There's only one thing to do: start staring at men. Comment on their physiques. "Gee, honey, look at that guy. The one in biking shorts. Man! That's some penis! It's kind of shaped like Madagascar!" You'll be surprised at her reaction.

"You've changed a lot since you had four strokes in a row," she might say as she pushes you along in your wheelchair. You don't have to say a word. After all, it's a nice day, you're being squired around town by your beautiful wife, and today, what the hell, you're going to buy some fresh chewing tobacco and a nice new set of dishes.

You're going to drool a lot, and ruin many shirts, but it's a good life. You can even clear out the speed dial entries. And before you know it, you've grown old together. It's what marriage is all about.

(All horseshit aside, feel free to raise a glass on Saturday for my brother-in-law I. and his good lady S. I do wish them nothing but hurrahs and confetti and champagne.)

Tuesday, 05 July
Pyrotechnical Fouls

So happy belated Independence Day! Did you barbecue? Did you witlessly fend off an invading alien force? Did you covertly sneeze into a flag, and then feel kinda bad about it? Or did you just drink some beers and watch baseball? Because that's what we did. Well, we watched some baseball, which is to say we caught part of a Mariners game, but then we realized that we were watching the Mariners and switched over to a Food Channel show about hot dogs.

Oh, but there were also the fireworks! Oh, the majesty! Oh, the twinkling! Oh, where's my beer? The wife likes fireworks, but frankly, I find them tremendously boring. Fireworks shows basically remind me of funerals. Everyone shows up dutifully; they all stand or sit motionless for twenty minutes or so staring fixedly at a point angled about 20 degrees upward; and everyone kind of feels like the whole thing goes on for about 15 minutes longer than it really has to. We could actually combine the two. Funeralworks! Where for twenty minutes or so, dozens of corpses are launched by cannons into the air, and everyone can show up and be all like, "There goes Aunt Ro! Whoop, she caught in that tree pretty good."

No? Yeah, okay.

I don't know why I have such a hard-on against fireworks, except, you know, the boring. Maybe it's hearing the same damn things every year when they go off: the oooohs and aaaahs and Yay, Smiley Face! SMILEY FACE? Is this the best they can do? Other favorites are: the heart-shaped one, the cube-shaped one, and the thing that looks like hair growing in the sky. WHAT AMERICA MEANS TO ME: card suits, Platonic solids, and vigorous hair growth.

It is possible that I'm a bit of a crank about this.

What other horrible things did we assault our eyeballs with this weekend, anyway? Oh, right--awful movies! Oh, we had a couple of DOOOOZIES this weekend! Standard warning about possible spoilers apply, yadda yadda.

National Treasure

"Okay, hang with me on this one. There's a treasure map on the back of the Declaration of Independence! It has to do with a bunch of crap about the Knights Templar and the Masons and possibly James Mason! Anyway, we get Nick Cage to STEAL IT and do a bunch of shit to it, like dump crap all over it, shove it down his ass-crack, and bend, fold and mutilate it--we might have him fuck it, with sax music--and then he finds . . . the NATIONAL TREASURE."

As an American, I am proud to have watched a movie on the Fourth of July weekend that basically treats our founding document like you would a matchbook from Thumper's.

National Treasure is a ghastly melange of about nine other vastly superior movies--we spied cops from Indiana Jones, Mission: Impossible, any number of Bond movies, and even, at its most visually ridiculous, Harry Potter--but where the famous Frankenstein monster finally came to life, this movie, at its end, when all the dumb switches were thrown, simply continued to lie on the table, unmoving, just a horrifying unnameable thing, stitched ghoulishly out of catgut by an idiot following a bad dream.

Nick Cage has long ago squandered whatever goodwill he had amongst curmudgeons like myself, and once again turns in the laziest possible performance, offering up allegedly quirky jitterisms as an ersatz substitute for actual acting. As his ostensible E-VILL foil, Sean Bean does what Sean Bean always does: a commendable job in a thankless role. Anyone who has seen the Lord of the Rings movies already knows that he's going to be the nice guy who stabs everyone in the back, and so again in this movie the audience is screaming, "DON'T TRUST SEAN BEAN! DIDN'T YOU SEE THE FIRST RING MOVIE?" However, for economy's sake, National Treasure is at least kind enough to have his betrayal come within the first ten minutes of the film. Truly, he is a magic Bean.

White Noise

You are forgiven if you cannot immediately recall what the hell this movie was; none of our friends that we mentioned it to could until we told them it was a Michael Keaton movie where he can hear the voices of the dead--again, the dead must hassle us--through his MODERN ELECTRONIC RECORDING DEVICES. Thanks a lot for the ceaseless chatter of the dead, Thomas fucking Edison! Now I can't even listen to my old Pebbles CDs without Aunt Ro coming on the line asking when we're going to pull her corpse down from that tree.

There's nothing worth going into about this movie. At the end, the wife asked, "How did this even get made?" I didn't know. Tensionless, unscary, incoherent, brainless, pointless and needless . . . and then I suddenly realized what watching White Noise was actually like: fireworks.










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