Southern Beck

We watched One False Move last night, at the behest of a certain video rental clerk. This guy is incredible. He looks like Beck, except he's more ragged around the edges and, unlike Beck, talks with a thick Southern brogue. Janelle & I call him "Southern Beck," though never to his face. And so anyway, Southern Beck recommended One False Move and I have no idea why that didn't make me turn right around, put the box back on the shelf, and pick up 3:10 To Yuma instead, because he's made it clear to us in the past that he has the. Worst. Taste. Ever.

So five minutes into One False Move we've realized that we've made a huge error in renting this piece of shit. But we had previously been quite looking forward to dissociating for 1.37 hours in a healthy attempt (I think) to try and temporarily forget that we have another being's life in our hands from now on, as in forever. So, we let go of all our pretty little expectations of having, oh I don't know, a decent movie to watch and instead eased into the full knowing that we were about to get a lovin' spoonful of full-tilt Bill Paxton and - as if that warn't enough - Billy Bob "I Am The Human Perineum" Thornton.

"What the fuck is Southern Beck thinking, anyway?" I think I said that about forty-five times last night, even after Janelle went to bed and left me alone to sift through the ca-ca. As soon as the credits rolled, I sat up in the darkened living room and birthed the thought "Oh my God, we're actually moving to Iowa City, Iowa."

That's right, Iowa City, pop. 63,000...where the median age is 25.4, the median household income is $35,000/year, and the population is 87% Snowflake. Southern Beck'd probably fit in real good there, 'cept it ain't the South and in the winter stays colder than a Wiccan's mammary glands. But maybe there's a Northern Beck waiting on us to arrive in Iowa. Maybe he's sitting at his desk right now, watching Godard flix & rolling a smoke.