It was A’s birthday. 30th birthday, we were misled to believe. We were eager to admit another brother into the 30’s club—damn those pesky 20’s!
L arranged for a surprise party. She’s good at organizing such things—she’s young, energetic and bored.
Plans were made: dinner at TGIF and bowling/pubbing later. We decided not to go dancing—mainly because we were so regular at the one decent club that Peoria boasts that the big, burly, and scary bouncer recognizes us and chats to us about the weather instead of giving us the mean, you-are-suspect-even if proven otherwise look.
L was in charge of logistics. She will bring a clueless A, F will bring his family, D will pick me up, and V will act fast and loose until the last minute.
D was stuck with chauffeur duty because the poor man was working late that day. I like D—he’s 40, so that there is no generation gap yawning between us like with those irritating 20-somethings; he’s got an acerbic wit; and he can do a mean Indian-accent impression.
He picked me up in his banged-up Subaru. He claimed that the ugly dent to one side helped him maintain a philosophical perspective and not get attached to material possessions.
We made a pit stop at his house situated in an idyllic, maple-shaded lane, where my little walk soaking up the glorious sun and enjoying the restless Midwest breeze was rudely cut short by a bad-tempered and territorial neighborhood dog.
TGIF was bursting at the seams with summer revelers. The memory of winter is so recent that people try to be more joyous, friendly, and kind to kittens than what the occasion warrants during summer. (The whole circle-of-life thing becomes so poignant and urgent here that I’d been moved to tears by Rimsky-Korsakov’s “The Russian Easter” performed by the Peoria Symphony Orchestra early this spring.)
F was already there with his kids. A & L arrived after we finished our first drinks. We discovered that A was actually turning only 29. F made a show of calling and canceling the stripper—he’s incorrigible that way. The rest of us told A that we’ve lost interest in his birthday and were there just for the food. V was the only one who took it seriously anyway—he was the one with a little speech and the gift. He’s 25, so we forgave him.
After dinner, F excused himself, the rest of us debated a course of action, and A voted for pubbing. He chose a place called Bananas—our dubious reaction to it was reinforced by the fact that it turned out to be a little un-pub looking place in a strip mall, adjacent to, of all things, a small patch of cornfield, although it optimistically called itself ‘alehouse and eatery’. It is funny how some pubs think that putting up a prominent poster of Guinness on their window would somehow make them authentic.
It was quiet and cozy inside with a regulation dartboard, a minimalist pool table, and a couple of jukeboxes. Soon, beers were ordered, pool table was cornered, and jukebox was taken over. Fortunately, I had a supply of one-dollar bills and V was an enthusiastic DJ. His choices ranged from Highway Star to Mambo # 5 and we played along merrily, until our fellow guests passed around a hat, collected money, and made a bid for the jukebox.
As the older ones in our group settled down to brood over life and career choices, L started to get restless. She is a regular go-girl. We started debating our options. “Home!” said I. “Movie!” said V. “Ugh!” said L. “More beer!” said A. “Yuck!” said I.
D mediated. “Let’s go and check out the movies—if we don’t like anything, we can always go to the Buffalo Wild Wings next to it.”
By this time we reached the theaters, it was clear that our group was deeply divided. D, V, and I wanted the movies; L & A wanted anything but. The movie-beer-home discussion ensued, nerves got frazzled, a small quarrel spurted between L and V, and we gave-in ungraciously to the birthday boy and made our way to BWW.
By the time we were at the threshold of BWW, the quarrel between L & V became an altercation. L threatened to leave the party. A waved us on and hung back to calm her down. D, V, and I made our way to the smoke filled patio, highly nonplussed. Five minutes later, A came by to inform us that L was indeed intransigent and therefore both of them are leaving, throwing admonishing and accusing looks at V. D, who had gone to independently investigate the story, came back with a corroboration.
The three of us looked at each other. “How about that movie now?” V asked. “Let’s go,” said I. “A mindless action movie,” said D. “Amen!” said I.
That’s how we ended up in Wanted.
The problem was not about the curving bullets, an assassination group that divides its operations between an Austrian monastery and Chicago downtown, or assassination targets conveniently located on the CTA Loop. We could even work with the fact that the secret fraternity was started by a group of weavers 1000 years back. What we couldn’t handle was that the divine diktat for these assassins came from an actual loom in a modern mill.
“Loom of Fate!” Morgan Freeman said, with awful dignity.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” said I.
“He’s the Fruit of the Loom,” said D.
What we also couldn’t handle was the fact that the improbable curved trajectory of a bullet could be achieved not by technique, but by believing that you can. And that the path to this nirvana is getting beaten up, not trained.
“Curve the bullet!” barked Angelina Jolie.
“Curve the bullet!” said Morgan Freeman, with awful wisdom.
“Curve the tongue!” shouted D when Angelina Jolie kissed James McAvoy.
What we couldn’t handle that the plot deteriorated enough to deceive itself, the treatment was ham-fisted, the violence moved from slick to perverted to preposterous, and the acting terrible.
But what really cut us to the quick was that the audience seemed to really appreciate the movie. There was even a smattering of applause when the movie ended.
“Which fucking movie were they watching?” D asked incredulously.
As we trooped out, we saw someone hugging someone else, saying, with a depth of pain in his voice, “Let’s go and kill some people.”
P.S.: For an interesting review of Wanted, check out http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20080626/REVIEWS/294566124.
L arranged for a surprise party. She’s good at organizing such things—she’s young, energetic and bored.
Plans were made: dinner at TGIF and bowling/pubbing later. We decided not to go dancing—mainly because we were so regular at the one decent club that Peoria boasts that the big, burly, and scary bouncer recognizes us and chats to us about the weather instead of giving us the mean, you-are-suspect-even if proven otherwise look.
L was in charge of logistics. She will bring a clueless A, F will bring his family, D will pick me up, and V will act fast and loose until the last minute.
D was stuck with chauffeur duty because the poor man was working late that day. I like D—he’s 40, so that there is no generation gap yawning between us like with those irritating 20-somethings; he’s got an acerbic wit; and he can do a mean Indian-accent impression.
He picked me up in his banged-up Subaru. He claimed that the ugly dent to one side helped him maintain a philosophical perspective and not get attached to material possessions.
We made a pit stop at his house situated in an idyllic, maple-shaded lane, where my little walk soaking up the glorious sun and enjoying the restless Midwest breeze was rudely cut short by a bad-tempered and territorial neighborhood dog.
TGIF was bursting at the seams with summer revelers. The memory of winter is so recent that people try to be more joyous, friendly, and kind to kittens than what the occasion warrants during summer. (The whole circle-of-life thing becomes so poignant and urgent here that I’d been moved to tears by Rimsky-Korsakov’s “The Russian Easter” performed by the Peoria Symphony Orchestra early this spring.)
F was already there with his kids. A & L arrived after we finished our first drinks. We discovered that A was actually turning only 29. F made a show of calling and canceling the stripper—he’s incorrigible that way. The rest of us told A that we’ve lost interest in his birthday and were there just for the food. V was the only one who took it seriously anyway—he was the one with a little speech and the gift. He’s 25, so we forgave him.
After dinner, F excused himself, the rest of us debated a course of action, and A voted for pubbing. He chose a place called Bananas—our dubious reaction to it was reinforced by the fact that it turned out to be a little un-pub looking place in a strip mall, adjacent to, of all things, a small patch of cornfield, although it optimistically called itself ‘alehouse and eatery’. It is funny how some pubs think that putting up a prominent poster of Guinness on their window would somehow make them authentic.
It was quiet and cozy inside with a regulation dartboard, a minimalist pool table, and a couple of jukeboxes. Soon, beers were ordered, pool table was cornered, and jukebox was taken over. Fortunately, I had a supply of one-dollar bills and V was an enthusiastic DJ. His choices ranged from Highway Star to Mambo # 5 and we played along merrily, until our fellow guests passed around a hat, collected money, and made a bid for the jukebox.
As the older ones in our group settled down to brood over life and career choices, L started to get restless. She is a regular go-girl. We started debating our options. “Home!” said I. “Movie!” said V. “Ugh!” said L. “More beer!” said A. “Yuck!” said I.
D mediated. “Let’s go and check out the movies—if we don’t like anything, we can always go to the Buffalo Wild Wings next to it.”
By this time we reached the theaters, it was clear that our group was deeply divided. D, V, and I wanted the movies; L & A wanted anything but. The movie-beer-home discussion ensued, nerves got frazzled, a small quarrel spurted between L and V, and we gave-in ungraciously to the birthday boy and made our way to BWW.
By the time we were at the threshold of BWW, the quarrel between L & V became an altercation. L threatened to leave the party. A waved us on and hung back to calm her down. D, V, and I made our way to the smoke filled patio, highly nonplussed. Five minutes later, A came by to inform us that L was indeed intransigent and therefore both of them are leaving, throwing admonishing and accusing looks at V. D, who had gone to independently investigate the story, came back with a corroboration.
The three of us looked at each other. “How about that movie now?” V asked. “Let’s go,” said I. “A mindless action movie,” said D. “Amen!” said I.
That’s how we ended up in Wanted.
The problem was not about the curving bullets, an assassination group that divides its operations between an Austrian monastery and Chicago downtown, or assassination targets conveniently located on the CTA Loop. We could even work with the fact that the secret fraternity was started by a group of weavers 1000 years back. What we couldn’t handle was that the divine diktat for these assassins came from an actual loom in a modern mill.
“Loom of Fate!” Morgan Freeman said, with awful dignity.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” said I.
“He’s the Fruit of the Loom,” said D.
What we also couldn’t handle was the fact that the improbable curved trajectory of a bullet could be achieved not by technique, but by believing that you can. And that the path to this nirvana is getting beaten up, not trained.
“Curve the bullet!” barked Angelina Jolie.
“Curve the bullet!” said Morgan Freeman, with awful wisdom.
“Curve the tongue!” shouted D when Angelina Jolie kissed James McAvoy.
What we couldn’t handle that the plot deteriorated enough to deceive itself, the treatment was ham-fisted, the violence moved from slick to perverted to preposterous, and the acting terrible.
But what really cut us to the quick was that the audience seemed to really appreciate the movie. There was even a smattering of applause when the movie ended.
“Which fucking movie were they watching?” D asked incredulously.
As we trooped out, we saw someone hugging someone else, saying, with a depth of pain in his voice, “Let’s go and kill some people.”
P.S.: For an interesting review of Wanted, check out http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20080626/REVIEWS/294566124.
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