Viewed: DVD

I couldn’t finish watching this movie. From the DVD front cover image and the back cover text, I expected an exciting action movie. But what it proved to be is a chick talky flick with 60 seconds of action — uninteresting action. Granted, I stopped watching after an hour and a half. If there was more action at the end, I missed it.

I know the movie is supposed to be an homage to (or parody of) the 70s low-budget, independent, grindhouse flicks, so the editing “errors” didn’t bother me. But, if it’s supposed to be like the old 70s cheap flicks, it shouldn’t have 2000s pop culture and tech in it. The cell phones and text messages and such really felt out of place in this story. But, I could have overlooked the anachronisms had I been given the mindless action I expected.

Another odd thing was the decent acting, especially by Kurt Russell. I mean, I thought the whole concept of this movie is to recreate the feel of the cheap 70s grindhouse flicks, with bad editing, bad filming, bad acting, and all. But Tarantino gives us the bad editing, some bad filming, but good acting, and 21st century props.

And then there was the story. The first 45 minutes are just girls talking about . . . nothing. When Kurt Russell showed up, I thought, “Okay, here we go.” But he just added to the talking for another 15 minutes. Yes, the dialogue and acting is good, but it’s about nothing. I was completely bored. Nothing interesting was happening. Nothing.

Then there was the 60 seconds of car crash, and then a couple minutes of talking about it.

Afterward, we go back to another group of girls talking about nothing. I thought, Oh my god, you have got to be kidding me. I don’t want to listen to another hour of this pointless chit chat. I stopped the DVD at this point and just put the disk back in the case.

I intended to ask Blockbuster if they give refunds for crappy movies, but I forgot when I got to the store, and I just dropped the movie in the outside return slot. Maybe the movie got good and active at the end, but I really don’t want to sit through 105 minutes of boredom so that the final 15 minutes feel exciting.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

My dad, my brother, and I got together for a few hours and fired off a few dozen rounds of ammunition. I haven’t shot a gun in a couple or three years, so I was excited to get the chance again. I grew up with guns, for hunting, for target practice, and for just the appreciation of the things.

We first went by a store and picked up a couple boxes of ammunition and a package of paper targets, then we stopped by my dad’s house to choose the guns. We loaded the car trunk up and went out to my late granddad’s farm. A wooded area at the back of the farm has served as our shooting range countless times over the years. One particular tree must have a few hundred bullets in it.

There’s a dirt tractor trail that leads back to and into those woods a little ways. My dad backed his car to the entrance of the woods, and popped the trunk. We all got out and set about organizing the guns and ammo. Our armament for this day included a .22 semi-automatic target pistol, a .22 revolver, a .38 revolver, a .38 Special revolver, a .357 magnum revolver, and a SKS semi-automatic rifle.

I slide cartridges into my dad’s .357. It’s an old-style single action revolver, and we have a gunfighter rig holster, complete with leather straps to tie it down to our leg. I spent many hours in my teen years practicing with that gun in that holster. I was fast on the draw, and could twirl it like any movie star. But it’s been too many years since that practice, so I avoided showing off too much at this time (and never with it loaded). Still, it felt good sliding it in and out of that holster on my thigh.

While my dad and brother continued getting the stuff arranged in the trunk, I stepped on into the woods. The first thing I encountered was a snake. I heard a rattle about a yard from my feet, and I froze in place. Once I pinpointed the danger, I took a couple steps back. I heard a rattlesnake’s tail, but I saw a black snake’s head. Eventually the snake slunk out of the pile of leaves and slithered away, “rattling” its tail the whole time. It was at least three feet long, but the rattle was made by the black snake vibrating its tail in the dried leaves. My brother expressed that I should have shot it, but I didn’t see a need; black snakes eat rats, and it went off peacefully into the brush without a problem. It wouldn’t be a danger to us.

Then my dad and brother came into the woods with me, each carrying a loaded .38. We explored about 100 yards of the woods before getting down to shooting.

When I was young, there were a couple old cars in the woods, but nothing else. Many years ago, those cars were dragged out and taken away so some loggers could thin out the woods a little. Since then, the trees have grown back, and a ton of useless metal junk has been added.

My uncle still lives on the farm, and he is an unbelievable collector of junk. His yard, at the front of the farm, has piles of various junk machinery, and his junk collection has spread to the woods at the back of the farm. Walking through the woods, I counted 23 riding lawnmowers—rusted, busted, and completely worthless. There’s lots of other junk, too: cars, push lawnmowers, tillers, go-carts, tires, and piles of stuff I can’t readily identify. Fortunately, the alley to our favorite target tree was open and clear.

I called first shot, and tacked a paper target on the tree. We measured 10 paces from the tree (about 30 feet), and marked the distance with a stick. Thirty feet is not very far for target shooting, but we were all a few years out of practice and we wanted to actually hit the target. The target is 12 inches across, with 8 inches of black rings, and 1 inch of red bull’s-eye. I put all six bullets in the target, five of them in the black. I cleared my target and let my brother set up.

My brother put all six of his bullets in the target, even getting one in the bull’s-eye. My dad also put six bullets in his target. We weren’t doing too bad. Had we been a more standard distance from the target, I figure we still would have been hitting with most of our shots. Their .38 shots were putting nice, neat holes in the target, but my .357 shots were ripping the hell out of the paper and knocking out chunks of the tree bark. When you see something like that, you realize just how powerful and deadly a gun can be.

My brother and I then wanted to compare our skill with the .22 target pistol. He got first shot in this challenge. He rapid fired (about two shots per second) and got nine out of ten bullets in the target. I fired slower (about one shot per second) and put all ten in the target, all in the ring right around the bull’s-eye.

“I fired faster than you did,” he said.

“I thought we were looking for accuracy,” I retorted.

Then my brother loaded the SKS. We put up a fresh target, and measured out about 90 feet. He knelt and put the rifle to his shoulder. He took his time shooting at the longer range and put most of the nine bullets in the target. (I’ve forgotten exactly how he scored that time.)

After that, our time for the afternoon was running out. We made sure the guns were cleared, and then put everything back in the trunk of the car. It had been a fun little time, and I was so proud of my targets that I kept them and brought them home.

And for the record, we are not a group of stupid rednecks fooling around with firearms. We were careful and respectful. We used earplugs, made sure everyone was clear and behind the shooter, and never pointed a loaded gun anywhere but down. I don’t think more than three bullets went anywhere other than into that one target tree, and we picked up the spent shells after firing (except we couldn’t get all the 7.62mm shells because the SKS throws them out so far).

But, I’ll admit that I don’t think we could have chosen a more redneck location for the shooting. We all agreed that the next time we do this, we’ll go to a formal range.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

I put the fitted sheet on the bed and made sure the sides were tucked in neat. Then I grabbed the straight sheet and opened it up. To spread it across the bed, I gave it a big whip. The end went higher than I meant, and it bumped the light fixture over the bed. One of the light bulbs fell out, landing in the center of the bed.

The light bulb actually fell out of its own screw-threaded socket piece. The metal part of the bulb that screws into the socket was still in the socket—just the glass bulb lay on the bed. “Well,” I thought, “at least it landed softly on the bed.” Had it fell on the hardwood floor, it would have shattered, and clean up would have been troublesome.

I let go of the sheet and reached over to pick up the bulb. It was hot for having been on for a couple hours, and I reflexively let go and shouted in pain. The bulb smashed into the footboard of the bed and shattered into a million pieces. Oh, crap!

Little pieces of glass were scattered all over the bed and the floor, and lord knows how far the smash threw them. Oh, double crap. My hand stung from the burn, but I was more stunned by how my stupidity just made the situation oh so much worse. The bulb had landed softly on the bed; it was safe and in one piece. Then I had to pick it up and smash it all over the bedroom.

My wife kept the children out of the bedroom while I tried to clean up all the tiny, glinting, glass shards. There was glass all over the floor, on our sheets, on our comforter, and probably in places I didn’t think of checking. I vacuumed the floor and heard the clickety of the pieces being sucked up. I tried to vacuum the sheets and comforter, but when the hose sucked up the cloth, pieces of glass jumped up all over the place.

There was no way I was going to get all the glass out of the sheets—at least not sure enough that I’d ever be comfortable lying in them. I could just imagine getting cuts and lacerations all over sensitive areas of my body while turning over in the bed. I explained the situation to my wife, and she agreed to let me just throw away the sheets. A shame, that; they were nice, comfortable, and relatively new sheets. The comforter, though, I took outside and shook vigorously. Then I shook it again. Then I laid it across the patio chairs and beat it. Then I gathered it up and shook it again. God, I hope I got all the glass shards out of it. At least, though, it doesn’t lie right on top of our skin in bed. I ran the vacuum hose over it just to be sure. Then I vacuumed the floor again.

When we woke up this morning, we had no scratches or cuts, so I guess I got all the glass out of the bed. I need to get it out of my mind; thinking about there being a stray shard of glass in my bed just makes me shiver.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

There was an unexpected knock at the front door yesterday late afternoon. My 6 year old looked out the window and said, “It’s a lady I don’t know.”

I opened the door, and sure enough, there was a middle-aged woman standing there. Her minivan was parked in our driveway; the side door was open, and I could see a young child in the seat.

The woman said she wasn’t sure she had the right house, but she was looking for the woman who gave music lessons. We bought this house over six years ago, and I know the woman of the family that lived here then taught piano out of this house. I explained that the woman who taught music no longer lived here, and hasn’t for six years.

“Do you know her name?” this woman asked.

I have a vague recollection of the name, but it’s four or five syllables. I said, “I think it’s something like,” and I tried to pronounce it two or three ways. I doubt any way was the actual, correct way. I apologized for mangling the name beyond usefulness.

The woman standing on my porch asked was I sure I didn’t know the name. I said I was sure. She asked if I knew where she lived. I said I didn’t know. She asked, “But she doesn’t live here?” I paused a moment, confused by the question. “Right,” I confirmed.

This woman then explained that the music teacher taught her older daughter, and she wanted the teacher to teach her next daughter. “Yes,” I said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to get up with her.”

Then this woman asked if I had anything with the music teacher’s name or address on it. “No,” I said, “it’s been six years.”

“Wouldn’t her name be on the, . . .” she gestured with her hands, “contract, or whatever the papers are?”

At this point, I was about to laugh. This was absurd. This woman just seemed disbelieving that she had the right house, but was six years too late.

“Yeah,” I said, “her name is probably on the paperwork. But it’s filed away, and would take a while to get.”

“Would take a while to get,” she repeated.

She stood there a few moments as if hoping I’d go find the papers. After several seconds, she must have realized I wasn’t going to do it, so she just thanked me and walked off the porch. I watched her go back to her van, and then closed the door.

That was an interesting encounter.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com