A trio - a cluster, if you will - of recent movies I’ve had the fortune to watch courtesy of Netflix.

Hollywoodland is one of those I had mixed feelings about going into it. One of the things I love about film noire is the mystery, although I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t always understand the jumps of logic made by the protagonist. To an extent, this film was the same way. It takes place in two times: the first documents George Reeve’s life in Hollywood leading up and beyond his role as Superman; the second depicts Adrian Brody as a sleuth trying to determine who killed Reeves, and why. I don’t want to say too much about the film — despite this post having spoilers, I don’t want a point-by-point telling of the plot — but I will say two things. Diane Lane is hot. And, in the movie’s conclusion, when Reeves puts the gun to his head, saddened at the lack of success in his life, I felt a pang of sympathy — not, mind you, that I’ve ever put a gun to my own head — but that I think I can, at least a bit, understand when you reach a point in your life where it isn’t what you imagined it years earlier. Anyway.

So, another film noire was Brick, this, set in the modern day and in a high school. Yeah, I didn’t expect the kid from Third Rock From The Sun to be good in, um, anything, yet, lo-and-behold! he was (looked a lot like Heath Ledger, too, ladies). It’s all about cliques and drug-dealing and, man, there’s a lot of punching going on (more than I remembered from high school).

The third film is Martin Scorsese’s The Departed, a rather violent movie about the Irish mafia in Boston, the Massachussetts State Police, and the rats in both. I don’t really know what to say about this movie except … it’s good, enjoyable, and rather violent. Also, everyone dies, hence: the title. Y’know, everyone gets “dearly departed”?

I don’t remember the exact time I first heard the word “fuck”, but I know it was sometime in my first year of public school — seventh grade, a few months after moving to Columbia from Adelphi, and leaving the Catholic school I’d spent the first six years of school in. I’m reasonably certain that was the first time I heard it, anyway, although it’s always possible I’d been aware of it prior.
I do remember inquiring of one of my schoolmates, “What does ‘fuck’ mean?” I hadn’t yet heard of George Carlin’s explanation, which I think is probably far superior than the one I recieved that day, years and years ago.

So, as I mentioned, yesterday, Gary’s son was in the shop helping out. He made a lot of mistakes, but he’s ten years old, and is still learning that, for example, a “deluxe” pizza has more than just sausage and pepperoni on it. Anyway, the day was, at points, very hectic and out of control, and Gary isn’t exactly Mr. Couth when it comes to watching his language. Long story short, at the end of the day, as I’m preparing to leave, Little Gary comes up to me: “You cuss almost as much as my dad.”

And it’s true! I hadn’t really thought of it, but I’m pretty sure some form of “fuck” commonly finds its way into my vocabulary, although I never would’ve thought I or anyone else (with the possible exception of a sailor, of course) could possibly cuss as much as or more than Gary.

I’m a cusser.