Pass the hammer, please

Tuesday evening was tinged with uneasiness and discomfort. Have you ever engaged someone in a more intimate form of contact (not sexually, just with fewer people around) and discovered that they are vastly different without an audience? We fell into that trap on Tuesday evening and were left completely speechless by the time our guests left. A couple whom I have known through work for the past three years, and quite like, I might add, came to dinner at my invitation. The wife is a bit rough around the edges, has a bawdy sense of humour and a general non-chalence about her that I always found funny, and dare I say it, endearing. The husband is a quiet sort; former police captain and public relations officer for the force who has many stories to tell, looks you straight in the eye during conversations, and genuinely seems to appreciate the interaction we share. I thought it was about time I should invite them over for dinner, which I did, expecting a lovely evening of fun conversation and good food. While the food was fabulous if I do say so myself, what we ended up with was a soirée of husband bashing at its best. Patrons and performers from the WWF would most certainly have enjoyed the show; Danny and I were left somewhat aghast. But first, the food; a salad made from fresh garden greens including dandelion, baby spinach, arugula with radicchio and endive thrown in for colour, mandarin segments and dried cranberries along with sunflower seeds topped with a balsamic raspberry vinaigrette. The main course consisted of chicken breasts stuffed with a mixture of ricotta, orange zest, spinach and caramelized onion, accompanied by home made linguini and a floretine alfredo sauce. White and red Australian wine with the meal followed by coffee, petit fours and port. In a word; yummylicious.

The soft classical music playing in the background was supposed to set the scene for a civilized dinner; instead, it only served as a contrast to the myriad profoundly negative comments that the husband was pelted with. On the one hand, the lovely strains of Mozart and Beethoven, on the other, the constant sound of hammering as the husband was pounded to a pulp. Suffices to say, we gently accelerated the pace of the meal and made it to dessert in under an hour. At 9:30, the wife repeated three times that it was time to go, cutting off her husband mid-sentence on each occasion. Moments later, at the door, she said something to the effect of ‘having to do this again sometime’, I just smiled and nodded preferring to reach my hand out to her husband rather than reply. As we closed the door behind them, Danny just looked at me and let out a sigh. Nothing more was said. I turned up the music a bit, we cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher and neated things up in the kitchen and sat back down in the living room with a glass of port. There was nothing to say, it was evident we both felt the same way; a mixture of shock, revulsion and despair for this man who just sat there and took it. There was little point in commenting, no one has the right to criticize another’s relationship, certainly not that of simple acquaintances, and we would do no such thing. We agreed that this was not an experience to be repeated, and left it at that. At least we had plenty of leftovers.

On a different topic, I apologize for ruining anyone’s fun as I am about to rant about the end of the movie Knowing. Good Lord people of the movie making industry – get a grip! What the hell is the point of crafting a seemingly brilliant thriller about the end of the world and screwing the whole thing up with aliens. The X-Files are OVER, as proved by THEIR last movie which sucked worse than a cheap whore with a single rotting tooth in her mouth! Where has he magic gone? The ending of Knowing reminded me of every dramatic episode of Star Trek The Next Generation (which I loved, by the way) wherein disasters abound until the last three minutes of the show when someone postulates that they might have a slim chance at survival if they link a flashlight to the main computer in order to trigger the numbotronic emitters and reverse the polarity of the crapomatic that is holding them in place; and it works! Every time! It became so repetitive and expected that I would guess the ending every single time. Oh, and by the way, new ensigns are only there to die Every Single Time! That type of formula based writing pisses me off and I’m becoming far less tolerant to cookie cutter endings and stencilled scenarios. Had I known about Knowing I would not have wasted my time – the only saving grace was that it was a cheap rental rather than a fifty dollar outing to the cinema. There! I’ve said it so movie moguls beware – any more of this type of crap and I’m coming straight to Hollywood and kick you asses; don’t say you haven’t been warned.


Hmmm….I suddenly feel a whole lot better. I think I’ll rent Next or Ghost Rider tonight; the trailer looked bitchin’!