Lucky for you, I don't have any standards.

My 11th grade teacher grade English teacher was a dude named David Clarke. Mr. Clarke was amazing, honestly probably 27% of the reason I'm a teacher is because of him (I owe him a stiff punch in the balls, it would seem). Anyway, he ruled, and as a recent USC film student and graduate, he loved talking about movies, er, cinema.

One of his assignments was to keep a journal, and being that he actually read our stuff (I don't read my student's journals...because...*shudder*), I always wrote about movies, either random thoughts or something resembling a review, and usually in the order I saw them. (oddly enough, that's pretty much the same thing I do here...two and a half decades later). Anyhow, I remember these two 'reviews' verbatim:

Bridges of Madison County (PG-13): Maybe it's because of my age and sex (15, male), but this one probably one of the worst movies I have ever seen.

Mortal Kombat (PG-13): Maybe it's because of my age and sex (15, male) but this one was probably one of the best movies I have ever seen.

You'd think I might have changed in 26 years wandering this planet, but you'd be wrong. Maybe it's because of my age and sex (41, male) [or an undiagnosed head injury], but I was stoked as Hell when the new Mortal Kombat debuted on HBO Max, even it was potentially an exercise in futility. 

See, updating the characters (and violence) is one thing, but could anything remotely improve on that guy screeching MORTAL KKKKKKKKKOMBATTTTTTT over some techno jams? Is it even possible that the reboot could live up to the hype?

Or, and maybe even more pressing, does it even f--king matter?

If you've played any of the Mortal Kombat games - you're more than up to speed (and can gladly ignore 98% of what Sonya says). But if you haven't, um, weird, and uh...here's what you need (seems like the wrong word) to know...

For control of the world/universe/scary forest place, a secret fighting tournament is held...secretly?...over an undisclosed amount of time. Earthrealm sends its best warriors, cattle-branded with a rad dragon logo...against human-ish monsters from the Netherrealm, which, as far as I can gather, is basically straight-up Hell. Or at the very least, the Lava Level in every game ever. Got it? Really? Because I'm pretty sure I don't...

I don't see yo' name in lights.

 You never know. And I hate that shit.

I want to be frustrated with the kid that always sleeps in class. I would love to say something to the old lady that doesn't pick up her dog's greasy shits in my yard (maybe even bag it up and stuff it her mailbox). I'd kill to smash my car into the driver's side of that a-hole that drifted in front of me while doing eighty and clearly on his phone.

But I can't. Or, at least...I won't. Because you never know what people are going through, right? Maybe that kid's house is an absolute nightmare. Maybe that lady has serious back problems and it's all she can do to get outside with her pup. And that dickhead swerving around the highway recklessly? Nah, no matter what...f--k him.

And f--k Levee Green, the protagonist of 2020's Ma Rainey's Black Bottom. Unleashed upon us by an intermittently charming/unflinchingly terrifying Chadwick Boseman, Levee is a tortured soul on work release from his own personal Hell. Levee's got demons for sure, and depending on who you ask - just might be one his own damn self.

Set in a sultry late 20's Chicago, a quartet of musicians assemble for a day's worth of recording with the larger-than-life Ma Rainey. Rainey's worked her way up, way up in fact, and can be counted on for a hit record. She's good - real good - but like any star, she's a bit of a pain in the ass (to put it mildly), too. But it's not like she doesn't have her reasons, as her second-tier status as a black woman undercuts the shit out of her value as an artist (not to mention person). Ma knows this, and ain't playing in the least. These white dudes are making bank off her soul, swagger and sweat (lots of sweat), right? So she digs in. Always. And you should too.

Monsters exist.

My kids don't really like movies. 

Hopefully, I can double back in a few years and change that don't to didn't, but for now, watching a flick isn't a thing they are consistently into. Aw.

Unless - UNLESS - giant monsters are involved. Then it's like let's f--king do this shit (minus the profanity, of course).

In preparation for Godzilla vs. Kong, we - as a family (gasp!) - watched the somewhat dubious Godzilla: King of all Monsters [review], and despite all the rainy, electrical storm battles during the darkest night ever recorded, that viewing experience was a resounding success. Please sir, I want some more. Logically, Kong: Skull Island was our next stop along the way, right? RIGHT?

It should have been. But after consulting some family-centric websites, I couldn't do it. Not with the kids. Not with my wife. Check that, not with my kids AND my wife. I get in enough trouble as it is. And allegedly...there was some stuff. Stuff ol' Mrs. Two Dollar Cinema might find objectionable. Aw.

Anyway, after years of sitting in my VUDU account, I finally unleashed heck and dialed up Skull Island and can I tell you, I effing loved it. Not only is Kong somehow infinitely cooler than Godzilla (blasphemy, I know), I COULD SEE EVERYTHING. Like, the sun was out and it was shining directly into my eyes (while cool shit was going down, no less). My retinas were torched, and I couldn't have been happier.

Now, I've lost my way in the universe (both the films and...ours), but best I can gather, the sneaky bastards at the Government want to map out the Bermuda Triangle-esque Skull Island, and naturally, weaponize motherf--king Kong. They send an elite team of Marvel Superheroes (Loki, Nick Fury and Captain Marvel) to complete the job, but thankfully, everything immediately goes tits up. Kong goes ape-shit on all of them - but with, alas, good reason.

(isn't that always the case?)

Today is his birthday and it is a tradition that on his birthday I get up extra early and make him his favorite kind of dessert.

You and me. 

Us. 

We made it. Barely, but we effing did it.

F--king madness, is all I can think blame, as there is no good reason that this blog survived a decade, and even less of a reason that you find yourself reading it, whenever/wherever it is that you're doing so. 

But without you, I would have called it years ago, even if seems that I indeed, called it years ago. 

What started late one night after a colleague showed me a blog about her newborn son, grew into a place where I'd spend a quarter of my life talking to a combination of no one, anyone and everyone. Well, everyone is a bit of a stretch, as there's been a core group of brilliant bloggers that have shown Two Dollar Cinema an infinite amount of love and encouragement, and this annual tradition is dedicated to them.