What to watch?

We have nothing to watch. Nothing, I tell you, nothing, even though we have cable television with a bunch of premium channels, Netflix, Hulu, Amazon Prime and three Redboxes located less than two miles from our house.

There haven’t been any new episodes of Modern Family. We’re all caught up with Orange Is the New Black, Girls, Transparent, Jessica Jones, Master of None, Unbreakable Kimmie Schmidt, Broad City, The Walking Dead. I think there’s a new season of Orphan Black out, but last I checked it wasn’t available for streaming through Amazon.

Washed up celebrity horse with depression and addiction issues. What’s not to love?

I binged watched three seasons of Bojack Horseman one weekend without W because I thought she detested shows with talking animals. That’s what she had said, anyway. Turns out she meant live action shows and not cartoons.

“Like Look Who’s Talking,” she tried to explain.

“That had a talking baby in it,” I said. “And it was hilarious.”

She made her angry face.

“You mean like Babe,” I said, trying to help. “Our mother called us all the same,” I said in my best pig voice. “How could you not like Babe?”

More angry face.

We have been trying to pick a new show.

“What about The Sopranos,” W asks.

“That seems so old. I don’t know that I can get into it.”

She forces a stream of hot air through her mouth like a tea kettle. This is the sound of exasperation.

She’s already named a bunch of shows: House of Cards, Homeland, Breaking Bad, Dexter. She ends up watching them herself because they don’t interest me. I am difficult. Impossible. I am glad I’m not married to myself.

See, everyone loves a skinny tie.

I suggest Mad Men because, well, skinny ties.

“You don’t want to watch The Sopranos because it’s too old, but you want to watch Mad Men?”

So. Much. Angry. Face.

Our youngest suggests Haven.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“It’s based on the Stephen King book The Colorado Kid,” he says.

“I liked that book.”

“Yeah, the people in the town have supernatural powers,” he says.

“Um. No. I don’t like that supernatural stuff.”

“You liked Stranger Things!” W says way too loud.

“Yeah, but that had Winona Ryder and Eggo waffles.”

* * *

What did you watch this summer?

All caught up in The L Word

W and I are just emerging from a fugue-like state brought on by binge watching six seasons of The L Word.  That’s 78 episodes if you’re counting along at home.

W had been scanning through the offerings on Netflix and stumbled upon the series.  And there we were watching Jenny Schecter being accosted by Marina Ferrer in a bathroom somewhere in California.

One word.  Shane.

There was no stopping us once we got started.  We couldn’t get enough Bette, Tina, Alice and of course, Shane.  Swoon.

Now, I have to get back to my real life and stop pretending I’m a famous writer who hangs out in Los Angeles’ coolest coffee shop by day and attends only the hippest and hottest Girl/Grrrl parties by night.  (Please tell me all nine seasons of The Facts of Life are NOT on Netflix.  Just the thought is so tempting.)

We had watched The L Word when it first ran on Showtime.  Flash forward ten years, and here’s what stuck out this time around:

* Wow, what a groundbreaking show.  The L Word certainly was ahead of its time.  It paved the way for Girls and Orange Is the New Black.

* Are there no butch women in L.A.?  I used to think Shane was kinda butch.  She’s not.  Like Papi says upon meeting the legendary Shane: “You’re just a skinny white girl.”  So true.

* I always wanted to be Shane.  Or maybe Shane’s wingwoman.  You know, me and Shane hanging out, picking up the ladies.  This time around, I realized Shane is kinda a jerk.

* And what’s up with Shane’s hairstyling skills?  It’s tousling of hair.  That’s what it is.  Tousling.  Of hair.

Ivan, you rock.

* Ivan Aycock.  I want to be Ivan Aycock.

* Can you spell infidelity?  So much cheating.  Keep it in your pants, ladies.

* Jenny Schecter is actually interesting and likable in the first few seasons.  Whether you like her or hate her, there is no The L Word without her.

Max, you deserved better.

* Really, couldn’t you have been a little more sensitive toward the transitioning Max?  Max, I’ll be your friend.  We’ll go to a sports bar, drink some beer and eat some wings.  Forget those high femmes.  Call me.  And really Part 2: Did you have to make Max pregnant?  Really?

* What a total waste of Xena: Warrior Princess.  Um, you couldn’t find a better role for Lucy Lawless than some hack detective?  Other ideas: L.L. has an affair with Bette.  Or Xena herself chops off Jenny’s head with her sword, places it on a stake in front of The Planet and runs off with Alice.  No one saw that coming.  Discuss.

* * *

Ok, y’all remember The L Word. Why don’t we play Marry, Kill, Screw.  I’ll go first ’cause it’s my blog.

Marry — Tina because she seems the most normal.  Ands she’s cute.  Except when she’s with Henry.  She’s hideous then. (W votes for Tasha because she’s into all that officer/gentleman stuff.)

Kill — Everyone is going to say Jenny.  And, in a twist of irony, Jenny dies in the series finale. So, I’ll go with someone else.  I’ll go with Dylan because she is uber-annoying.  And she doesn’t deserve Helena, the British bombshell.  (W goes with Jenny.  She is wearing her “Kill Jenny Schecter” T-shirt as I type.)

Screw — Helena.  (W says Latino hottie Carmen.  She loves Carmen.  You have no idea.)

 

Orange Is the New Black: Savor or devour?

Today is the day.  June 6.  Season 2 of Netflix’s Orange Is the New Black is available.  All 13 episodes.

“How many episodes are we going to watch tonight?” W asked this morning.

“One.  Maybe,” I replied.

Of course, I’m itching to find out what’s happened to Piper and crew.

But I already don’t want it to be over.

You know she wants me.

That’s how much I love Orange Is the New Black.  It’s funny, it’s poignant, it’s got lesbians and Laura Prepon in those black glasses.  Damn.

Besides, it’s the only show out there that can reference Pablo Neruda and female ejaculation in the same episode.  That Jenji Kohan is a genius.

The world may never know.  Wink.

So, binge or save?  It reminds me of a cherry Tootsie Pop and the eternal question of “How many licks?”  (Of course it does, Middle-age Butch.  You know you wanted to say that.)

We’ll start with episode one tonight.  It’s called “Thirsty Bird.”  I’ll make cheese steaks and tater tots for dinner, because it’s Friday night.  It’ll be an event.

Maybe we’ll watch an episode Saturday night and one on Sunday night.

All bets are off after that.

Because it’s a show that revolves around lesbians.  Butch lesbians and crazy lesbians.  College graduate lesbians and sexy lesbians.  Bad lesbians and bad-ass lesbians.

You know you can’t stop at just one.

* * *

Are you watching OITNB tonight?  Will you binge watch or spread ’em out?

I will be dead before we finish our Netflix queue

Before I went to bed last night, I saw our latest Netflix arrival sitting in its red envelope in front of the TV.

Here’s a conversation that I had with the wife:

Me: Do you know that every time we watch a movie, you see some preview that you like and put it at the top of our Netflix queue?

For example, last week we watched Pariah, a coming-of-age tale about a young, black lesbian who comes to terms with her sexual orientation and her family’s strict, religious ideals.  When we finished the movie, W perused the trailers.  Apparently, another lesbian film caught her eye because she immediately added it to our queue and bumped it up to the top of the list.  So now My Summer of Love sits on our dresser, ahead of 64 other movies, including Cedar Rapids, Ruby Sparks and My Sister’s Keeper.

Me: At this rate, we’ll never get through our Netflix queue.

W: Actually, I don’t do that every time.

Me: Ok, like every other time.

W: Then we’ll get through our queue eventually.

Me: No, we won’t.

W: Yes, we will.

Me: Yeah, like when I’m dead.

W: That has to be the saddest thing ever.  Having to delete someone’s Netflix queue because they’re dead.

Sidenote: So, I’m not sure whether we would actually finish our Netflix queue if W continues to add one new movie every other time that we watch a movie.  As I stated above, our queue currently contains 64 movies.  If she adds half that amount — or 32 movies — we would have 96 movies in our queue.  In a particularly good month, we watch about three movies.  That means it would take us almost three years to watch all of those movies.  All of this, of course, is based on the proposition that we don’t add any more movies.  If I add two movies to our queue today, it’s actually like adding three when you count W’s automatic addition.  And if we watch six movies, W will automatically add three, so I’m pretty sure our queue is approaching infinity.  This is sounding like an episode of The Big Bang Theory.  I think I need to write to the Ask Marilyn chick from the Parade magazine in the Sunday paper.  She could get to the bottom of all of this.  

Fun Fact:  Here are the next five movies on our NetFlix queue:

1. Barney’s Version
2. Go Fish
3. Chloe
4. The Whole Wide World
5. Heavenly Creatures

As you can see, our list is top-loaded with gay and lesbian content.  You can read about the reason in this post, Bitch slapped by Netflix.

How about you?  How many movies are in your queue?  What’s at the top of the list?

Bitch Slapped by Netflix

Trixie, Camaro and Hel

W and I watched a Netflix movie last night.

We both love movies, but we only watch on average one DVD per month.  Kids, cats, work and exhaustion from kids, cats and work usually get in the way of at-home movie nights.

We remain optimistic about the possibility of seeing more movies though.  Our Netflix queue is 59 deep.  At this rate, it will take us five years to go through our current queue.  I will be 50 and too mature for 21 Jump Street and Cedar Rapids.  Well, it could happen.

W came up with this great idea of putting all of our lesbian movies at the top of our queue.  The theory was that scantily clad women and girl-on-girl action would help us put a sizeable dent in our list of unwatched movies.

The strategy hasn’t really worked.  Lesbian-themed movies are not flying out of here in their little red envelopes.  I think that just means we’re really old.  And, that we have too many kids and cats.  Most times we’re content to just crawl into bed and watch Pawn Stars or Cats from Hell or Snooki and JWoww or whatever other crap is on TV.

There was a time in my life that I could blow through But I’m a Cheerleader, The Incredibly True Adventure of Two Girls in Love and Disc 3 of Season 2 of The L Word in a single night, but those days of unrequited lesbian lust are way behind me.

Anyway, last night was a designated movie night.  A designated lesbian movie night.

So, sometimes W and I get weird and pretend to be off-put by such movies.  It’s like pretending to be a Republican.

W: So, you didn’t put this movie in our queue?

Me: Of course not.  This is outrageous!  Netflix will be hearing from me about this mishap.

W:  You definitely need to contact Netflix and let them know about this.

Me: Don’t you worry your pretty little head.  Netflix will be hearing about the deviant material that they shipped unsolicited to our home.  (Shaking my fist.)

W: You know, since we have the movie, even though Netflix sent it by mistake, we should probably watch it.  Even though they totally screwed up.

Me: I know.  You’re right.  (Deep sigh.)  We should probably watch it.  Because they sent it and all.  I bet the Romneys don’t have to deal with this crap.

This is my new barometer of what is right and acceptable and good.  Mitt and Ann.

W: You’re sure you didn’t put this in our queue?

Me: Yep.

W: Ok, just making sure.  So what is this movie about anyway?

Me: I don’t know.  Let me read the Netflix write-up.  The movie is called Bitch Slap.

W: I don’t mean to interrupt you, but where would one — if one was interested in this type of alternative entertainment — hear about said movie?

Me: Ummm … gee, I don’t know.  Maybe in some kind of magazine.  That comes in the mail.  In a black plastic wrapper.

W: I see.

Me: Alright, back to the summary.  “Three naughty girls …”

W: Ok, let’s watch.

Me: You are way too easy.  (I continue reading.)  “Three naughty girls — leggy stripper Trixie, homicidal drug runner Camaro and high-powered businesswoman Hel — team up to rip off a crime kingpin, but surprise betrayals quickly spin events out of control.  Guns, hand-to-hand combat, scantily clad women and plenty of tongue-in-cheek humor populate this guilty-pleasure throwback to 1960s and ’70s exploitation films.”

We put the movie in and it’s all boobs and cleavage and heaving bosoms and guns and more boobs and cleavage and heaving bosoms.  All in a good way.  The plot was a little weird and hard to follow but that was offset by all of the breasts.

The movie mostly takes place in the desert and at one point our female leads find an endless supply of water to pour on each other.  It was like Flashdance in the Sahara or a Super Bowl sideline.  I kept waiting for Bill Parcells to show up and kill my breast buzz.

Sexy

Not so sexy

Lucy Lawless and Renee O’Connor have bit parts, which gave the movie extra lesbian cred.

Xena Warrior Princess and Gabrielle

At some point, the movie freezes and we have to skip ahead, missing relevant plot points, no doubt.

W gets bored about three-quarters of the way through and starts checking out Trixie, Camaro and Hel’s bios on IMDb.  “None of these actresses have ever been in anything before,” she says incredulously.

“How dare you!” I say.  “These are finely trained thespians.”

Good breasts buy a lot in my world.

After 109 minutes of kick-ass grrl action, W reminds me to contact Netflix about the problem.

Me: Oh, you mean that scratch on the disc?

W: Yeah.  And the fact that they sent us a movie that we didn’t order.

Me: Oh.  That.  Right.

What are the top 5 movie on your Netflix queue?

Here are ours:

1. The Fountain
2. Tipping the Velvet
3. Pariah
4. Barney’s Version
5. Go Fish