The One Where We Talk About Friends
While in Michigan visiting one of my oldest friends (14 years! Holy Crap!), we did very little besides eat copious amounts of grilled meats, drink beer, and sit. And sit. And sit. I think that's what gets me most about leaving the city--you're either sitting in a car, sitting at a table, or sitting on a couch.
This weekend, we did a lot of sitting and watching movies, which doing so hungover on a gray day is pretty much made of win. But we watched an interesting trio of movies.
1. Land of the Dead. Watched at noon while we all nursed our hangovers, after our amazing greasy spoon breakfast.
Some of you may be shocked to learn that this was my first official viewing of a George Romero zombie movie (wait, does he make any other kind?) And man oh man was it awesome!!!! Watching a zombie reach down the throat of his victim and pull out a fist of innards is even more awesome when you've just eaten an enormous pile of bacon and pancakes. One of the gentlemen in our group quickly lamented the chili he ordered for brunch. (Yeah, we couldn't understand it either.) But what I loved most about the movie, and (slow-moving) zombie movies in general is that the gore is all in fun. I know there's no actual zombies out there, so any fear is just movie-induced fear, not possible reality-induced fear (considered conversely is the reason I will never, never, never see the movie Seven again. Sickos like that could be anywhere.) BUT, the movie kinda made me start thinking about the friends watching with me. Most of them were my host's college friends who I've seen in the same setting about once a year for the last six or seven years. I know all their girlfriends turned wives turned mothers of their children. We have a few hastily remembered inside jokes, know who's better at flip-cup than who. We say a lot of "Remember last year when....!" And it's good. But empty. Like zombie movies. There's no real connection there, for me, in the movie or the friendships. That's ok, I guess, but I think I was looking for a little more connection to old friends this weekend, which I didn't find. It's not like I could answer their "How are yous!?" with "Except for that whole father dying thing, great!" Instead, I lied and said "Great! Work's awesome!" and we went back to eating our hot dogs, wandering the party like smiling zombies.
2. Later that day, after the last of the late-nighters when back home to their wives and lawns, me, my friend, and his girlfriend watched Enchanted. What a wonderful movie. It's perfect in its glossy finish, Disney color, polished New York landscape-ness. Sigh, Amy Adams' optimism. Sigh, Patrick Dempsy's dimples. Sigh, happy ending. And that's kinda what I was hoping this weekend was going to be about--returning to a familiar place to be enveloped by long time friends, leaving rechared, refreshed, loved. Happily ever after because these friends would be the bluebirds tying my sash, those taking the poison apple from my hand. Unfortunately, a good contingent of the regular long time friends couldn't make it to our annual party, and it ended up feeling more like pirated Wi-Fi, just enough signal to connect, but not enough to get anything done. Maybe I expected too much. Maybe these old friends can't be like bluebirds or Wi-Fi or whatever metaphor works here. At least there are movies like Enchanted to escape into, to see boys sing their feelings to girls, in Central Park, dancing on the shoulders of contruction workers, to use as justification for hoping things work out a little more like that.
3. After bowling a few games, and watching my friend instruct his patient girlfriend in the finer points of throwing a hook, practicing for their couples league match later in the week (no, really), we went back to the house and watched Hilary Swank and many hot Irishmen in P.S. I Love You, a definite pick of the girlfriend's Netflix queue, not my friend's. Personally, I love a bad sappy movie, especially featuring hot, often shirtless, men. But my friend was not having it. He complained loudly throughout about the movie's (admittedly) slow pace. Yes, it was slow. Not a whole lot happened except that Swank gets a bunch of letters from her uber hot, now dead husband. Maybe I'm just overly sensitive these days, but I feel like my friend just didn't get it. The woman's husband died. This was all she had left of him. Even if it was a little creepy, it was a spark of light in her otherwise bleak, painful existence. My friend has not experienced death as an adult. I remember when his grandparents died when we were in high school, and I don't really know how he internally processed those events, how long they stung after the fact. We were 15 or 16--I'd hadn't experienced death by that age either, so I don't really know what you're supposed to do, how it's supposed to affect you. What I do know is that I really wanted to watch Swank's character be sad and neglect her friends and not shower and sing along with old Judy Garland movies. I know I could never do that, however sad I might be, for many reasons. But watching her express that sadness was very liberating for me and I wanted to soak it up and see how it all worked out for her, not listen to my friend bellow "BOR-ING." He just didn't get it. I don't know if I could expect him to, but I wanted him to. He hasn't asked me how I'm doing since my dad died, not once. And I'm mad about that, and he'll know it by the end of the week. I don't think I would have needed P.S. I Love You to make me realize I felt this way. And my friend is right, it is not a good movie, but it was an interesting endcap to an equally mediocre weekend.
With Hancock and Dark Knight on the horizon I can only hope that they will be harbingers for the anit-superheros and death defying stunts and awesome gadgets in my future--and friends. And friends.
This weekend, we did a lot of sitting and watching movies, which doing so hungover on a gray day is pretty much made of win. But we watched an interesting trio of movies.
1. Land of the Dead. Watched at noon while we all nursed our hangovers, after our amazing greasy spoon breakfast.
Some of you may be shocked to learn that this was my first official viewing of a George Romero zombie movie (wait, does he make any other kind?) And man oh man was it awesome!!!! Watching a zombie reach down the throat of his victim and pull out a fist of innards is even more awesome when you've just eaten an enormous pile of bacon and pancakes. One of the gentlemen in our group quickly lamented the chili he ordered for brunch. (Yeah, we couldn't understand it either.) But what I loved most about the movie, and (slow-moving) zombie movies in general is that the gore is all in fun. I know there's no actual zombies out there, so any fear is just movie-induced fear, not possible reality-induced fear (considered conversely is the reason I will never, never, never see the movie Seven again. Sickos like that could be anywhere.) BUT, the movie kinda made me start thinking about the friends watching with me. Most of them were my host's college friends who I've seen in the same setting about once a year for the last six or seven years. I know all their girlfriends turned wives turned mothers of their children. We have a few hastily remembered inside jokes, know who's better at flip-cup than who. We say a lot of "Remember last year when....!" And it's good. But empty. Like zombie movies. There's no real connection there, for me, in the movie or the friendships. That's ok, I guess, but I think I was looking for a little more connection to old friends this weekend, which I didn't find. It's not like I could answer their "How are yous!?" with "Except for that whole father dying thing, great!" Instead, I lied and said "Great! Work's awesome!" and we went back to eating our hot dogs, wandering the party like smiling zombies.
2. Later that day, after the last of the late-nighters when back home to their wives and lawns, me, my friend, and his girlfriend watched Enchanted. What a wonderful movie. It's perfect in its glossy finish, Disney color, polished New York landscape-ness. Sigh, Amy Adams' optimism. Sigh, Patrick Dempsy's dimples. Sigh, happy ending. And that's kinda what I was hoping this weekend was going to be about--returning to a familiar place to be enveloped by long time friends, leaving rechared, refreshed, loved. Happily ever after because these friends would be the bluebirds tying my sash, those taking the poison apple from my hand. Unfortunately, a good contingent of the regular long time friends couldn't make it to our annual party, and it ended up feeling more like pirated Wi-Fi, just enough signal to connect, but not enough to get anything done. Maybe I expected too much. Maybe these old friends can't be like bluebirds or Wi-Fi or whatever metaphor works here. At least there are movies like Enchanted to escape into, to see boys sing their feelings to girls, in Central Park, dancing on the shoulders of contruction workers, to use as justification for hoping things work out a little more like that.
3. After bowling a few games, and watching my friend instruct his patient girlfriend in the finer points of throwing a hook, practicing for their couples league match later in the week (no, really), we went back to the house and watched Hilary Swank and many hot Irishmen in P.S. I Love You, a definite pick of the girlfriend's Netflix queue, not my friend's. Personally, I love a bad sappy movie, especially featuring hot, often shirtless, men. But my friend was not having it. He complained loudly throughout about the movie's (admittedly) slow pace. Yes, it was slow. Not a whole lot happened except that Swank gets a bunch of letters from her uber hot, now dead husband. Maybe I'm just overly sensitive these days, but I feel like my friend just didn't get it. The woman's husband died. This was all she had left of him. Even if it was a little creepy, it was a spark of light in her otherwise bleak, painful existence. My friend has not experienced death as an adult. I remember when his grandparents died when we were in high school, and I don't really know how he internally processed those events, how long they stung after the fact. We were 15 or 16--I'd hadn't experienced death by that age either, so I don't really know what you're supposed to do, how it's supposed to affect you. What I do know is that I really wanted to watch Swank's character be sad and neglect her friends and not shower and sing along with old Judy Garland movies. I know I could never do that, however sad I might be, for many reasons. But watching her express that sadness was very liberating for me and I wanted to soak it up and see how it all worked out for her, not listen to my friend bellow "BOR-ING." He just didn't get it. I don't know if I could expect him to, but I wanted him to. He hasn't asked me how I'm doing since my dad died, not once. And I'm mad about that, and he'll know it by the end of the week. I don't think I would have needed P.S. I Love You to make me realize I felt this way. And my friend is right, it is not a good movie, but it was an interesting endcap to an equally mediocre weekend.
With Hancock and Dark Knight on the horizon I can only hope that they will be harbingers for the anit-superheros and death defying stunts and awesome gadgets in my future--and friends. And friends.