Pity the drama of the invisible suburban mom, running errands all alone on a Monday morning. Where is she going? Dry cleaner (husband’s shirts), Blockbuster (return “The Aristocrats” and “The 40-Year-Old Virgin”), Target (she needs sunglasses).
At Target, she selects a pair of sunglasses. Nine ninety-five. The cheaper ones don’t fit, the more expensive ones seem so, oh, extravagant. She’s so practical she disgusts herself.
So she stops in the music section. Buys “Back in Black” on a special CD/DVD double disk. Why? Because. She didn’t buy that record when it was new, because she was into New Wave then and AC/DC produced the anthems of the enemy, preferred by all those mouth-breathing radio program directors who thought the B-52s were for faggots. We were fighting a culture war, dammit! But that Nike commercial reminded me they weren’t totally worthless, so Angus? All is forgiven.
I checked the copyright on the album. 1980. Sweet Jay-zus, that was a long time ago.
Are we back to the first person, then? OK. I was feeling a little like a really bad memoirist, there.
For the record, I liked both those movies. They were both dirty, but very different.
The John Roberts Story “The 40-Year-Old Virgin” was the biggest revelation, as I expected it to be half-crap and it was wholly entertaining.
I needed some light entertainment today, to keep me from thinking about rioting religious lunatics freaking over a bunch of cartoons, and the AC/DC to remind me that whenever you rock out, Allah kills a kitten.