For most of my adult life, work has been at least a forty-five minute commute. By car. And being that I'm a (shitty) teacher, the idea of living close enough to walk to school is the stuff of nightmares. So in that regard, I enjoy the time behind the wheel. In theory.
The reason I mention this, is the last film I saw made me realize that I have never been a fixture on public transportation. F--k the bus in it's stinky ass, but the only steady train ride that ever became something resembling old hat, was when my cousin and I would take the T to Red Sox games all summer.
When I wasn't fantasizing about a Sox victory, or getting Rebecca DeMornay'd in a tunnel, I would stare out the window, enviously longing to live along the Green Line. There was this one typical New England house in particular I always had a boner (that should read bonah, or wicked haad on) for: the one with the basketball hoop. I'd imagine shooting jumpers on that sumbitch, draining threes as people on the train were awed by my Bird-like skills. It would be the coolest shit ever, likely prompting a sexy young co-ed to de-board and repeatedly box me out. The drawback?
I always imagined my errant shots getting crushed by a train.
Oh, speaking of a train smashing my balls and ruining my idea of a good time, what the f--k is with the cinematic adaptation of The Girl on a Train? While I didn't read the book it was based on (it was all I could do to not passionately murder those desperate to recommend it), when it comes to f--king up a good book with a bad movie, my uh, spider sense is tingling. With the novel, I'm gonna go out on a limb in assuming you actually wanted to find out what happened next, right? Or is that a stretch?
Because what is certainly a stretch of many things (including my attention span), is about four-fifths of what's presented in director Tate Taylor's 2016 'thriller'. Set along the idyllic Metro-North line, the story takes us through the bizarre journey of Rachel Watson (Emily Blunt, always looking like yes, she yet again shat her pants), a seemingly bored woman obsessing over the lives of the people living along the tracks of her commute.
While that I could potentially swallow, these aren't just random people that live their lives as Watson chugs by at a speed typically reserved for Roombas. Instead these passionate individuals are all inexplicably linked to one another...on the same f--king street. And at time, in the same f--king house. It's so incredibly stupid, even as a someone who doesn't drink, I was thinking I should ask my wife, you wanna do some shots? Liven this f--ker up a little?
The reason I mention this, is the last film I saw made me realize that I have never been a fixture on public transportation. F--k the bus in it's stinky ass, but the only steady train ride that ever became something resembling old hat, was when my cousin and I would take the T to Red Sox games all summer.
When I wasn't fantasizing about a Sox victory, or getting Rebecca DeMornay'd in a tunnel, I would stare out the window, enviously longing to live along the Green Line. There was this one typical New England house in particular I always had a boner (that should read bonah, or wicked haad on) for: the one with the basketball hoop. I'd imagine shooting jumpers on that sumbitch, draining threes as people on the train were awed by my Bird-like skills. It would be the coolest shit ever, likely prompting a sexy young co-ed to de-board and repeatedly box me out. The drawback?
I always imagined my errant shots getting crushed by a train.
Because what is certainly a stretch of many things (including my attention span), is about four-fifths of what's presented in director Tate Taylor's 2016 'thriller'. Set along the idyllic Metro-North line, the story takes us through the bizarre journey of Rachel Watson (Emily Blunt, always looking like yes, she yet again shat her pants), a seemingly bored woman obsessing over the lives of the people living along the tracks of her commute.
While that I could potentially swallow, these aren't just random people that live their lives as Watson chugs by at a speed typically reserved for Roombas. Instead these passionate individuals are all inexplicably linked to one another...on the same f--king street. And at time, in the same f--king house. It's so incredibly stupid, even as a someone who doesn't drink, I was thinking I should ask my wife, you wanna do some shots? Liven this f--ker up a little?
