Movie Night: Tom Hanks, the World's Greatest Actor..

After holding on to The 40-Year Old Virgin and Return From Witch Mountain for about two weeks, finally got around to returning them and getting the next movies on the kid's and our lists.

First, the mandatory explanation:

The Sandra Bullock Scale© was devised to rate a movie sleepability, due to my inability to stay awake through any Sandra Bullock film since Demolition Man. A perfect score of five out of five represents a movie's a) stupifying boredom combined with b) lack of even token nudity despite hot chickage [see Practical Magic... what a waste of time, Nicole Kidman and Sandra Bullock and zero nudity... Rated PG-13 for sensuality my fanny...]

Anyway, we seem to have blown through every single kid's movie at Netflix and are starting to get mostly-harmless '80s PG-rated comedies of suspect intellectual heft. I hope we're not doing any permanent damage to their developing brains...

This weekend's offering for the kids was Turner and Hooch, a typical odd-couple cop movie from Tom Hanks' unfortunate "I'm getting paid for this, right?" period (The 'burbs, Turner and Hooch, Joe vs. the Volcano). The only twist being Hanks' partner -- a large, ugly, slobbering dog. The Hooch of the title.

I'm not going to bore you with the plot, you've undoubtedly seen it before, so let's get right to the digressions:

First, if you look up "Turner and Hootch" (note the different spelling of Hootch) in The Urban Dictionary, you get slang for something very dirty. I'm not going to spoil it for you, but the kicker is the whole humming the Sanford and Son theme. That just makes the whole thing, if you ask me.

Second: decent "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon" potenetial in this one. For instance, I was looking up the career of bit player Clyde Kusatsu (he played a grocery store manager) and was too lazy to type in "Tom Hanks" in the search bar and managed to get to him in five steps (with bonus points for actually using Kevin Bacon). Kusatsu was in a couple episodes of M*A*S*H with David Ogden Steirs, Steirs was in Disney's Hunchback of Notre Dame with Demi Moore, who was in A Few Good Men with Kevin Bacon, who was in Apollo 13 with Tom Hanks.

You've also got Urkel's next door neighbor (who was also in Die Hard) and Craig T. Nelson for your Kevin Bacon game needs.

Third: Did I miss the three and a half weeks where Mare Winningham was romantic lead material?

All in all, a fairly inoffensive bit of late '80s buddy genre. Nothing to write home about, but gave the kids a couple of chuckles.

(The Boy just wandered down, here's his take: "I liked... Umm... Ummm.... Uhhh.... DAD! Don't write the Ummms!...." okay, okay. Here, after much prodding: "I liked that the dog wrecked the really organized guy's house. And I like Daddy's stinky feet")

(Uh, thanks. I think he just wanted to see if I would put that down. No editing here, babe. We're blog veritie!)

Anyway, I'll give it three out of five Sandra's, as I didn't fall asleep, but probably because I was surfing the net while watching it.

(The Boy's rating: Zero! And he wants to remind you all that he likes my stinky feet.)

(Yes, he's truly a delightful child.)

Help!

Staying home with sick kid...

Watching Spy Kids 3-D...

Brain shirnking....

Help!

Faux Food

As the boy was born around April Fool's, Wifeypooh usually brings in a treat for his class which looks like something else. A couple of years ago it was poundcake and frosting that looked like grilled cheese, sushi made from rice crispies and fruit roll-ups, and this year's entry, the cookie chicken nugget, with jelly dip:



Bon appetite!

Rumors of my demise were only slightly exaggerated...

Sorry I've been away. See, had a little medical emergency. Had discomfort in my lower abdomen. After much medical research (by which I mean looking up every available article on fatal diseases in Web M.D.), I diagnosed myself with stage 4 abdominal cancer and begin putting my affairs in order. Which means I had to come clean with my wife about that girl I kissed in college. (Really, she meant nothing to me... and she had a bit of a mustache. And her name was Fred. And it was really dark in that bar...)

Anywho, I basically moped around for a few days, sobbing uncontrollably every couple of hours until Wifeypooh got sick of the whole thing and made me go see the doctor.

Now, I like my doctor. First of all, he probably goes two and a half bills, and Wifeypooh used to babysit his kids and tells me their cupboards are filled with junk food, so he doesn't really get on your case about being a fat pig. I appreciate that.

But I think he may be losing a bit off his fastball. See, I was in desperate need of morphine, as that's what Web M.D. says you treat a fatal non-operative cancer like mine with, and Dr. StayPuft was having none of this. He actually wanted to examine me!

So after the traditional social finger or two... Or, I swear, the whole hand (Moon River!) (What the heck was he doing up there? Setting up a parlor?)... He sends me off for various tests. All of which come back negative.

Yup. No cancer. Web M.D. let me down. Then Dr. StayPuft tries to sell me this line about how the discomfort I was feeling was probably due to some type of physical activity I had recently done which was using muscles I didn't normally use. Now, as I try to use as few muscles as possible, I was able to pinpoint exactly the root cause of my horrific pain...

Derek Jeter.



Yes. The captain of the dread Yankees: the chief nemesis of our blessed Red Sox. Mr. November himself. He's the cause of all my sorrow.

You see, Jeter endoreses this torture device sold to unsuspecting parents of little leaugers: the Hit-a-Way. You attach it to a pole, throw the ball away for you, it coils around the pole and comes back upon whence you hit it.

The boy got one for his birthday last year and I set it up for him this week, so he could start practicing for baseball season. And I took a few cuts myself.

Well, let me tell you: the muscles one uses to ride the train, drink coffee, type blogs, and hit on pretty women are not the same ones used to swing a baseball bat. And getting exercise to certain here-to-fore unchallenged abdominal muscles... well... Let me just say for the record I would still like the morphine.

Now I'm off to ice my elbow after playing catch with him for ten minutes. It's either that or I've got a wicked case of elbow cancer brewing...

Okay, I'm back.

Looking at yesterday's post I realized my Dunkin' level must be low, causing these depressive and suicidal thoughts. So here I sit with my Dunkin' Great One, and, wouldn't you know it, all is right with the world!

I'm sitting here looking at a Father's Day present The Boy made me last year titled "Five Reasons Why I Love My Dad." And in addition to highlighting the sublime perfection of my fatherhood, it also speaks volumes about The Boy, and why he is destined to a life of slide rules and .... well, whatever the heck engineers do.

Five Reasons Why I Love My Dad
by Boy Jones

1. He is nice. Well, comparatively, I guess. I see the Boy hasn't yet discovered that "yes, ahem, yup, true..." are the conversation tactics of a Dad desperately trying to read that paper, not a nice guy engrossed in your breakfast table discussion.

And here's the sad part: in ten years I'll be sitting, probably at that same table, wishing I could have those conversations...

2. He plays with me. This is what happens when you have a dad with the mentality of a twelve year old. Actually, it was ideal. When Wifeypooh got tired of playing with me, she popped out the kids, and given me new playmates so I don't have to bother her.

3. He does not yell at me. I'm not the yeller of the family. I growl more than yell. I've also been known to huff and sigh. Which is why in the rare occasion when I do yell, it gets instant attention... Although the advent of adolescence in The Girl has seen increasing yelling with decreasing efficacy...

4. He buys me food. Well, I like food too, so it's not like I'm buying it just for him. And he eats like a bird anyway, so it's really not a big deal. Just give him a bit of macaroni and cheese and a cookie after dinner and he's all yours...

5. He gives me shelter. What kind of eight year old thinks about stuff like this? "He gives me shelter"... Whattaya think, I'd make you sleep out in the cold? What a left-brain, logical, Spock-like thought...

So, a future of protractors and calculator watches ahead of him, or what?