Move Over Ms. Landers
Katie told me that I should read some things by Virginia Woolf. "You will really like To the Lighthouse," she said. I read it and wondered three things: Did she ever read To the Lighthouse? Does she even know me? Is this a joke?
I think that I will compile lists of poor suggestions and then I will dole the recommendations out to others at my leisure, for my amusement.
It was my great pleasure, for example, when I recommended that Richard and Nichole watch "Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey." After two hours of the terrible sequel, Richard groaned and turned off the television. Later he asked me, incredulously, "how could you possibly have enjoyed that movie!?" I rejoiced. ("Here in your own personal hell you must do infinity push ups!" "What! There's no way we can do infinity push ups!" "Well, maybe if we do them girl style...")
We got my parents a Netflix subscription for Christmas last year and, as administrators of the account, were able to build the queue for them. We started to pick out the most inappropriate or inapplicable films we could find, mostly raucous and offensive comedies and children's cartoons, and we laughed and laughed to imagine their reactions to the movies. Of course, we did build a queue of movies that they would enjoy, but not before Richard took this idea and added all the seasons of "Always Sunny in Philadelphia." Fantastically, they loved the show and enjoy recounting their favorite episodes with Richard and his friends.
Once my mother rented the movie Shopgirl for everyone (Richard and Nichole, Josh, me, her, Dad) to watch together. She insisted that it was excellent, she had read the book and was looking forward to seeing the movie as a family. After about forty minutes of relatively tasteful, though still scandalous, sex scenes, my folks making the environment even more uncomfortable by insisting that Nichole not tell her parents that we watched porn as a family and that we usually didn't watch movies like this as a family, my mother left to do dishes and my dad ran out to do chores. My mother kept insisting that she "didn't remember that from the book!" Secretly, I hope that she did remember it from the book, and that she was laughing cunningly to herself while she washed the dishes to imagine the discomfort.
I am now in the business of bad advice. And questions?
I think that I will compile lists of poor suggestions and then I will dole the recommendations out to others at my leisure, for my amusement.
It was my great pleasure, for example, when I recommended that Richard and Nichole watch "Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey." After two hours of the terrible sequel, Richard groaned and turned off the television. Later he asked me, incredulously, "how could you possibly have enjoyed that movie!?" I rejoiced. ("Here in your own personal hell you must do infinity push ups!" "What! There's no way we can do infinity push ups!" "Well, maybe if we do them girl style...")
We got my parents a Netflix subscription for Christmas last year and, as administrators of the account, were able to build the queue for them. We started to pick out the most inappropriate or inapplicable films we could find, mostly raucous and offensive comedies and children's cartoons, and we laughed and laughed to imagine their reactions to the movies. Of course, we did build a queue of movies that they would enjoy, but not before Richard took this idea and added all the seasons of "Always Sunny in Philadelphia." Fantastically, they loved the show and enjoy recounting their favorite episodes with Richard and his friends.
Once my mother rented the movie Shopgirl for everyone (Richard and Nichole, Josh, me, her, Dad) to watch together. She insisted that it was excellent, she had read the book and was looking forward to seeing the movie as a family. After about forty minutes of relatively tasteful, though still scandalous, sex scenes, my folks making the environment even more uncomfortable by insisting that Nichole not tell her parents that we watched porn as a family and that we usually didn't watch movies like this as a family, my mother left to do dishes and my dad ran out to do chores. My mother kept insisting that she "didn't remember that from the book!" Secretly, I hope that she did remember it from the book, and that she was laughing cunningly to herself while she washed the dishes to imagine the discomfort.
I am now in the business of bad advice. And questions?
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