It was a pretty quiet weekend for me, this one just been. I watched Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story on Friday courtesy of a Malaysian DVD (and Bec). Some brief comments - I had trouble telling whether Dodgeball was poking fun at cliches or unashamedly embracing them; the plot seemed like it was written by film school students doing an essay on "Underdogs: the essential themes and plot twists (Illustrated pop-up version)" and then inflated with hot air from a barrel into which money was being poured. Ben Stiller was fantastic though. I'm only slightly ashamed to admit I laughed at much of it, but I submit as my defence the late hour and the dearth of alternative viewing. I wouldn't spend much money watching it, but lest I sound like an Arthouse snob I'd like to state I have NO FUCKING IDEA what Russian Ark was about. I took someone to that on a date, too.
So Saturday was the Grand Final, right? I'm a proud fan of the other football (no, not rugby, you melon-headed twit) and while I usually watch with some mild interest on grounds such as parochialism or appreciation of sporting skill, I really couldn't give a toss who won this one. They were both interstate teams; Brisbane are a bunch of arrogant tossers (well, several of them are), and Port Adelaide are these fancy newcomers (to the AFL, anyway) who left their state competition because everyone hated them (the AFL offered to send Collingwood into the SAFL in return, but it didn't work out), so I scoffed down the delicious food prepared by my Aunt Mary and watched the boxing. I mean, Alastair Lynch in the forward line, sorry.
Saturday evening I was at an 18th, where Paul and I – being the 4th and 5th oldest respectively – decided to pretend we were "nineteen" for the night and playing exciting games like "name the cute girls by what they're wearing". That wasn't even meta-fun, we're just dorks. Happy Birthday Lynden, if you're reading this, by the way. Thanks for the invite – if Whitey ever breaks up with Mr Whitey, give her my phone number. Oh, and remember to tell her I'm "nineteen".
Sunday was my usual routine of work and indoor soccer. Work was unremarkable, and soccer little better. We usually play games with 4 or 5 people, and whenever we get more than that our game just doesn't click. Theoretically we should have been able to run our opponents into the ground,since they only had four players (i.e. no subsitutes), but they very cannily slowed the game down to a crawl, and exploited our lapses in defence. None of us – myself aside – really have the fitness to keep running and hassling for an entire game; I played my longest spell yet as keeper because Paul had an injured finger and no-one else wanted to (in their defence, I was playing in the outfield until I decided Yak sucked balls as goalie and switched with him). If the tone of this paragraph hasn't made it perfectly clear – we lost. The one bright point I took out of the game was another MVP, which I guess is worth even more because it means the referee judged me to be more valuable than any member of the winning team, but we really need to work on our squad rotation and structure in future. I can't win matches by myself, much as I'd like *sigh*
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