I was originally going to write about something else tonight… but then Hubby-to-Be and I decided to watch ‘Home Alone 2′.
One of my favorite movies as a kid, holiday or no, it’s totally bizarre to watch as an adult. (Bizarre, but hilarious. The two of us were cackling in our living room… it’s times like these that make me glad the walls to the neighbors’ appear to be soundproof… or at least, very well insulated.)
Let me start by saying, yes, I know it’s a movie, it’s not real, it’s meant to entertain, be fake, etc. Well aware. Okay, now that that’s out of the way…
First, I can’t get over anyone’s haircuts. Let’s be serious, the 90s, especially the early 90s, resulted in a good look for pretty much… no one. (I can be included in this. While I can’t recall anything I wore in this specific year, at some point in that general time period, I distinctly remember thinking my maroon corduroy pants and awful navy and white patterned short-sleeve sweater with maroon accents was going to the outfit to take me straight to the top of the fashion food chain… huge, multicolored plastic glasses, the perfect accessories. Thanks, Clueless.)
Second, I love Tim Curry. This really requires no further explanation.
But let’s get to some of the finer points. This is clearly not a movie made in this decade… DCF (or CPS or whomever) would be ALL OVER these people. Not only do you forget your child to go on vacation once, but it happens again? You don’t even seem all that upset, who ARE you people? A rule of thumb: if you have so many kids you can’t notice if one is missing, that’s too many.
Plus. this kid would NEVER have made it onto the plane after having dropped his boarding pass now, get real. You misspell your name on the boarding pass, they won’t let you on. (True story. Ask my mom.)
And don’t even get me started on the idiots at the hotel that allow him to check into the room.
You have to admire Kevin’s ingenuity with all his moves to thwart the robbers… I am pretty sure most adults can’t pull off all that in such a short period of time. Though, can someone explain to me why a ten-year-old knows about kerosene? It’s not like he’s Googling that in 1992.
The best part, which Hubby-to-Be joyfully pointed out to me, close to the end, right before they leave the Munster house the action takes place at, Kevin’s “operational” plans to stop the bad guy are completely laid out right in front of the guys, but naturally, this escapes them, and instead, after all this kid has put them through, they decide yet again, to follow him.
But all of this I can take. Although my brain is so fantastical that this is what I was thinking during the movie, none of this is truly what bothers me.
It’s the pigeons.
I can’t do it. I really just cannot do it.
I don’t particularly like birds of any kind, to be fair– though I wouldn’t necessarily wish harm on any of them. But pigeons? Rats with wings? Any native New Yorker can tell you, pigeons are not okay.
And not only does the kid TOUCH. THEM. The homeless lady WEARS THEM!!
Absolutely not. The bile is rising in my throat as I type.
Listen, in the past, I have had my share of rough patches concerning love life, broken hearts, etc. etc. but there is nothing on this planet, no amount of money, nothing at all that could make me want to spend YEARS with pigeons, let alone frolic about with them perched on my arms and head, with all their mess and sure-to-be diseases.
I get that you’re depressed, lady, but I assure you, the pigeons really aren’t going to help matters. No man, no heartbreak, is worth living with pigeons.
And then at the end, HE.HUGS.THE.LADY.
By the way, there IS a reason I have such an intense dislike for pigeons. I used to go on home appraisals with my mom when I was a kid… and one day, we were inspecting this four-family home in Sea Gate, Brooklyn. Big old, vacant, jalopy house, with a unit to a floor. I’m maybe a tween or something at this point, and she asks me to head up to the fourth floor to see if the unit is laid out the same way as the third floor. No problem, right?
Because someone left a window open up there… and there are literally HUNDREDS of pigeons… which scatter AND FLY INTO ME when I open the door. THEY TOUCH ME.
And then, years later, I’m walking down Steinway Street in Astoria… and a pigeon flies into my head!! (Yes, this did result in me nearly being Baker Act-ed. I’m flapping my arms around wildly as if to bat it away, screaming my damn head off, and naturally, no one around me saw it happen. The only saving grace is, in NYC, someone flailing and screaming at something invisible is not all that uncommon, so the kind strangers let it pass.)
So pigeons and I, we don’t really have all that great a history together. I’m sure all this thought on the subject is going to bring me interesting nightmares tonight.
The evening ends with me fighting the tears as the neglectful mother and demon-child son are reunited. I avoid having them spilling over solely because of my horror at the Pigeon Lady-hugging.
Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal.