You're blind to everything.

We f--ked up. Big time.

My wife and I must have been smoking some good shit the day we decided to buy our house. Well, we don't actually do drugs, but when I think about our house, substance abuse seems like a solid plan (and likely we could acquire them nearby). Now, don't get me wrong, our place? It's relatively charming. And at the time, affordable. But little did we know it's in a horrible location. Well, that's not entirely true. It's on a busy road traveled exclusively by douchebags. It's also near some ugly electrical transformer facility, where they implausibly craft telephone poles twenty four hours a day. But what pisses me of more than anything? Motherf--kers break into our cars. All the time.

Luckily for the audience, the characters in Sofia Coppola's The Bling Ring have their sites set much higher than Bumf--k, PA. These entitled little shits stake out Hollywood, and stealing valuables out of cars is only the beginning. Eventually, taking something out of an unlocked car isn't enough, and this crew rob mansions repeatedly.

I know I'm old, trust me. But peering into the lives of anybody ten years younger than I currently am immediately makes me want to fight something. And while I'll stop just short of shaking my fist from my front porch (which I don't even have, dammit) at the kids passing by, I clearly resent the youth featured in this flick, if not every teenager on the planet. Youth is wasted on the young, indeed.

Watching rich kids steal from even richer celebrities is a very odd thing. I love movies and I love movie stars, but honestly, I don't give a f--k about what they have and where they live. And I would never even consider stealing anything as I realize how hard it is to work for the little bit of shit I have. I respect talent. And if you get paid millions of dollars for whatever it is you do, good for you. Don't rub my face in it, and we're cool.

Drink up. Let's Boo-Boo.

I don't drink. Never have.

Shit, I made it all the way through college and didn't even think twice about it. On my wedding day, not even a sip of the bubbly to celebrate the occasion. Hell, I've taught middle school in the inner-city for six years, and still, not a drop. But given the chance to relive high school, in my hometown, with some of my old friends? F--king bottoms up, right?

The World's End is f--king brilliant. Despite taking place in a town overrun by blue-blooded aliens, and despite the fact that it's all kinds of ridiculous, the movie is really an ode to lifelong friendship, and is grounded in a reality more familiar than 90% of the junk I see. For me, someone long out of college, and barely able to remember high school, director Edgar Wright has made a movie that taps into how all guys look back at that magical time known as high school. Some look back fondly, some look back regretfully, and some never look back at all. And some, well, some can't look back. Only because they never left in the first place.

I'm not really into ranking shit, but let me just tell you that I f--king love Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz. I don't know where The World's End falls in the trilogy, nor do I really give a f--k to say one is better than the other. Wright, Nick Frost and Simon Pegg have made three films that make me laugh endlessly. Period.

The third film in the Cornetto trilogy tells the somewhat somber (yet consistenly hilarious) tale of a group of old friends getting together twenty years after high school. The reason? Gary King (Pegg), the team-captain of sorts, believes they have some unfinished business, specifically, finishing an epic pub crawl they failed two decades prior. While the level of enthusiasm from the other guys varies, King is determined to see it through, possibly showing more determination in this evening than in his entire life beforehand. Old friends, old jokes, old flames won't stop him. Neither will a town full of aliens.

Turbine failure!

I used to fly all the time. Usually alone, too. Once, when I was probably eleven or twelve, I remember being on this long overnight flight. We had left Honolulu and were flying over the Pacific, ultimately headed to the East Coast. I had an aisle seat in the middle section and awoke to a strange noise. To my left and up a row, a young girl, maybe nine or ten herself, was trying to open the door. At first I thought she was just pretending to do so, but then she started putting her tiny back in to it. She actually placed her foot on the door for leverage, and yanked down as hard as she could. The long red handle seemed to move, even if just a little. I frantically looked for help, or at least some form of non-verbal agreement that this was actually happening. But outside of some blissfully unaware passengers, loudly sleeping nearby, I was alone in my quiet desperation.

Unfortunately, I wasn't alone when I saw Planes, yet another aviation-related catastrophe I've had to endure. This time, my wife and young son were along for the ride, too. At least we weren't at 30,000 feet.

Weeks after his sister was born, we were desperate to give Matty a little concentrated face-time, and for the three of us to get out of the house. A teaser for Planes had been slapped in front of the original Cars blu ray (a movie that once played incessantly in our house). This was a flick that we basically had to see. Originally, according to this teaser anyway, the plan was for Planes to be a direct-to-video release. If only we had been so lucky.

Planes is pretty bad. Almost shockingly so. I'm sure it took years to make, and I'm sure there were hundreds of talented people involved, but the end result seems incredibly half-assed. It's all very bland, very uninspired. It's also very, and I hate to use this word, boring. It's likely the worst Disney movie to hit theaters since the cash-grabbing, Mater-fueled Cars 2 [review]. Truthfully, I was so desperate during this one, I would have welcomed that annoying tow-truck with open arms. Read that again. I wanted Mater. That's like having a knife jammed in your eye and really wishing someone would kick you in the balls, just to mix it up.

It must be comforting the way that everyone hates you.

My wedding was uneventful. Well, at least in cinematic terms. No one got sloppy drunk. No one (outwardly) hated anyone else and told them off in stunning fashion. And no one slept with a bridesmaid (well, the married ones probably got lucky), either. Overall, everything seemed pretty relaxed. Though to be fair, I should probably have prefaced all of this with: As far as I know.

Eight names + Nine actors = One terrible poster.

Speaking of as far as I know, the people behind The Big Wedding likely didn't plan on making a God-awful movie. Robert De Niro, probably didn't set out to lead an all-star cast straight down the shitter. And Diane Keaton, sure as shit didn't set out to play the same f--king character she plays in every f--king movie. Again. I mean, as far as I know, anyway.

But then again, as every single post on this site suggests, I'm a moron who apparently hates his free time.

This film was yet another peace offering to my wife, brought to you by the good folks at Redbox. Minutes after I had completed The Numbers Station [review], miraculously, my wife tiptoed downstairs to fire this one up. Quite the double header, no? Anyway, she had been watching a shit ton of daytime TV and some unlucky bastard had been out promoting this flick. Very rarely does my ladyfriend get excited about the shit I rent, but this one was right in her wheelhouse. A picturesque wedding and a host of recognizable faces should have made for an enjoyable flick, right? Right. But then, for laughs, Robert De Niro goes down on Susan Surandon three minutes in and instantly we both realized oh, it's that kind of party. My wife? She lost interest and probably started thinking about what else she should be doing. Me? I crossed my fingers and hoped that somehow Arnold Schwarzenegger would kick down my door and put a bullet through my television/head declaring, Consider this a divorce. 

I guess I like the idea of serving my country. Even if I don't know exactly what I do.

Days left until my wife gives birth to our second child. Games the Sox are ahead of the Yankees.

Total dollars in joint account. Movies watched per month. Completed posts.

These were the numbers that ruled my summer, in no particular order. Now, it's much simpler.

Hours till my alarm goes off. Days till the weekend.

John Cusack has never been confused with Richard Nixon. UNTIL NOW.

The Numbers Station doesn't concern itself with such trivial matters. In fact, the titular numbers, though shrouded in mystery, are clearly matters of life or death. The only numbers that mattered to me, however, were 89 and 32. The former being the number of minutes in this flick, the latter begin the cents it cost to rent. 89 + 32 = Victory, for a new dad, short on time and disposable income.

Pretend for a second that you were making a movie. This movie was going to be about a washed-up hitman, sent to another country to wallow in solitude. This guy is a loner, tormented by something in his past. Even if you didn't see the poster, you're thinking John Cusack, right? Of course you are. Oh, but this is going to a direct-to-video affair. Ethan Hawke, perhaps? Well that makes sense, too. He was originally cast in the role, only to be later replaced by Martin Blank. I mention this because while Cusack's presence gives this movie a little bit of credibility, it also brings a ton of familiarity, too.

It's Mexican water, Burt.

F--king magic.

Previously, that was uttered around my house only when the Lakers would beat the Celtics, but I remember one time where those two words swirled in my head for weeks. It was probably seventh or eighth grade and my friend Ke'ala had invited me to go camping with his family at the beach. We'd eat, we'd swim, we'd fish, then we'd swim some more before eating the fish. Outside of the Hawaiian setting, it was all rather ordinary. But somewhere during those days, somebody's uncle sat me down and showed me something. And that's when shit got real. And even though that set up sounds like something I might finally tell a therapist, trust me, it's much more wholesome you sick bastard. Much.

Perhaps sounding like a good idea on paper, The Incredible Burt Wonderstone dazzles in its ability to squander not only a great cast, but also a promising setup. 

Casting Steve Carell, Jim Carrey, Steve Buscemi, Alan Arkin, James Gandolfini and Olivia Wilde should have been enough, regardless. Seriously. Those actors, playing themselves, having lunch and just bullshitting about the industry would have riveted me. But an even better idea? Putting them all in a flick making fun of the aging magic industry in Vegas. But, they don't make movies on paper, do they?

Burt Wonderstone (Carell), is a moderately successful magician who hasn't innovated his Vegas show in years. The crowds are thinning, and it seems the magic biz simply ain't what it used to be. However, there's buzz around a new magician named Steve Gray (Carey), who performs his act in the streets. As the interest in Steve Gray: Brain Rapist swells, Wonderstone's boss, Doug Munny (Gandolfini) thinks it's time to reconsider the top show in his hotel. Shocking no one, Burt gets canned, and bottoms out, repeatedly failing to see how much of a douche he has become. Well, at least until he meets his childhood hero, Rance Holloway (Arkin), and slowly he regains his form. From here, well, if you're smart enough to successfully have turned on an electronic device, I'm assuming you can figure out exactly how this one ends. But...then again, you're still reading this...so, yeah. There's that.

We don't all have claws.

If I asked you to name the comic book character most faithfully realized on the big screen, who would you choose? It's Batman, right? Likely followed by Superman or Spider-Man, I'd think. And while I feel each of those characters have kicked all kinds of cinematic ass, I'm throwing them all out on a technicality, as only a super nerd (who um, doesn't read comic books) would dare. Each of them has been played by more than one person, muddying the waters. With my newly instituted/highly arbitrary criteria, we're down to two: Iron Man and Wolverine. While I'd go to bat for Robert Downey, Jr. anytime, when I think about, there can be only one.

Hugh Jackman has been playing Wolverine for almost fifteen years. Ridiculous. And throughout that span, Jackman has dusted off the CG claws again and again and held down major roles in four films, and even had a kickass cameo in a fifth. His latest entry, and certainly not his last, is The Wolverine.

I'll tell you up front, I've never seen X Men Origins: Wolverine. I heard that it basically sucked and have somehow managed to never catch it on FX, where it's seemingly on twice a day. That said, I had every intention of watching it prior to seeing the latest Wolverine flick, but it wasn't in the cards. And being that my wife was due the day after this one released, I honestly thought I'd never see this one either.

Clearly, I ended up catching this, and perhaps less obvious, I'm glad I did. Even if, overall, the film lacks action, I firmly believe you simply can't go wrong with Jackman. Watching him growl each line, occasionally stab a bad guy in the neck, and generally skulk around like an aging gunslinger, the guy is Wolverine. Even in a medicore-at best summer action flick.

Don't play the angles, George.

Of all the kids I have taught, there was this unforgettable young man I had early in my career, Jules. Jules was a pudgy, extremely introverted 6th grader at the time, and barring any setbacks, academic or otherwise, should be headed to college in the next few weeks. Jules never said a word, and always appeared to be diligently working. The thing is, all he ever did was draw. Shapes, lines, letters, cars, ninjas, whatever - Jules would put his head down and get completely lost in his art. Initially this frustrated and infuriated me, as Jules failed to complete anything. When I would question him (or even step in his direction), he would furiously erase whatever he had drawn. Even when I kind of accepted it, and eventually encouraged it, Jules would always apologize and say Sorry, Mr. Brown. I'll start my work. I'm sorry, while vigorously erasing/ultimately decimating his paper.

I didn't know it then, but I now know exactly what Jules needed to help him snap out of it. In fact it's the thing that gets most of us (in and) out of trouble.

Jules needed a girl.

If you weren't that kid who couldn't quite function in school, it's likely you knew him. The Art of Getting By, from writer and director Gavin Wiesen, tells the story of George, a high school senior. George, played by Freddie Highmore, is a relatively shy oddball, who despite being pleasant and well-mannered, can't get his shit together. He's not a bad kid, he just doesn't seem to care. About anything. And while part of you just wants to grab him and shake him endlessly, there's something frustratingly intriguing about him, too. I'm telling you, Jules was this kid.

As so often happens, the tiny world that George is possibly okay with gets knocked on its ass by a pretty young blonde named Sally. In a typical guy-move, George covers for this girl, despite likely never having even said a word to her in his life. Luckily, she rewards his misguided chivalry with some awkward conversation and the two become friends. They hang out, skip school, do typical cool-kid New York movie bullshit, and things seem to be going fine. Foolishly, and in a maneuver that too many guys have unsuccessfully attempted, George shuffles along claiming nothing more than friendship. This f--king guy isn't passionate about anything, except maaaaybe his artwork. Even that he seems ultimately indifferent toward.  But then friends, things change. That blonde friend of his? That blonde female friend of his? Well, she decides to start hanging out with another guy. They might even be having sex. Ol' passive, drifting-through-life Jules George? Well, I'll let you guess what he does.

This parenthood thing. Oh, it's a disaster.

If it ever comes up, I'll say that I applied to two colleges, though I might be exaggerating that tally by one. If I remember correctly, everybody in my graduating class (of thirty-three) had to apply to the nearby University of Hawai'i, whether we intended to go there or not. It was a lone piece of paper, where we checked some boxes and signed our names on the back. Seriously. Where it went after that, who the f--k knows, so, let's officially label that one as a possible application. The other one? Well, I was accepted right away. And clearly, it's worked out for me. I mean, I write a blog.

As our first movie since my wife delivered our daughter Violet, I thought Admission was going to be perfect. Since day and night have blended into she pooped again? my original plan was to Redbox the shortest friggin' movie in the machine and pray to Jeebus that I could finish it. But as the sweet smell of freedom/gasoline swirled around me at our local Royal Farms, so did the feeling of guilt. I had to include my wife, even if I knew there was no way in Hell she would finish it. And who better to entertain my hero than her hero, right? Well...

Turns out Admission isn't that good. Kind of at all. Despite starring two incredibly likable and talented people like Tina Fey and Paul Rudd, there's something incredibly off about the entire flick. Frustratingly, we spend too much time with characters we don't really care about (I'm looking at you Mom), and not enough time with those we do (Rudd). Fey, who can be hysterical, rarely gets to let loose as she plays the straight-laced tight ass, Portia. Whenever she finally explodes, it feels forced and surprisingly, extra ridiculous. Potentially the biggest offender however, is the the fact that the whole damn movie, revolving around someone who is a f--king wizard with forms and applications, allows a typo (or a smudge?) to knock everything on its ass. Maybe that's the point of the whole thing, or maybe the whole thing doesn't have a point.