Sunday, October 10

Are you talkin' to me? Did you rub my lamp?

Yes, one of the many things I purchased in my shopping frenzy this weekend was a copy of Aladdin. You don't understand, people. I went to see Friday Night Lights today. In case you were wondering: Not a pick-me-up. In fact, if you're of a mind to take sports seriously, you may want to slit your wrists afterward. Sure, it ends with this positive message about sports not being about winning or losing, blah, blah, blah, but any true fan knows it is all about winning. I don't need this pseudo-sports-psychology days before the ALCS, people! I have seen the enemy and it is the Yankees. Playing our hearts out isn't good enough; we must crush the Yankees like little bugs. Bugs, I say!

Right, now, where was I? Friday Night Lights was actually a good movie, despite a little too much shaky cam and, according to my sister, "weird lighting" (it can be hard trying to recreate the Texas sun). I quickly got past the fact that Billy Bob Thornton looked like he was wearing too much make-up in addition to what has to be half a dozen Botox shots. The fact that he couldn't over-emote actually made it a better movie. It definitely ranks as one of the top sports flicks of recent memory, and is right up there with instant football-movie classics Varsity Blues, Remember the Titans, and Any Given Sunday (though there will always be a space in my heart for Necessary Roughness and that weird movie where Goldie Hawn plays a football coach). Actually, it quickly earned its spot in the football-movie hall of fame for working in Tim McGraw as the overbearing football dad who counsels his son wisely that this football season will be the only joy in the rest of his life, so he better enjoy it now. (Oh, yeah, and stop fumbling the ball, you dumbass.) I know I can get a little overwrought when it comes to sports, but I cried far too much in this movie, people. Hollywood needs to stop fucking with my emotions and deliver the goods. Just like the Sox.

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