Sex Farm Woman

There was a time in my life when I had one hard and fast rule: If you don’t think Spinal Tap is funny, you cannot be my friend. At that time I believed that lack of appreciation for such a cinematic masterpiece showed a serious deficit of character, a total lack of appreciation for humor and possibly a missing chromosome and this amounted to such a colossal devastation of personality that I simply had no choice but to write such a person off as a hopeless case. I have since mellowed, but despite my best efforts I am still an imperfect woman, so let’s just say that if you don’t think it’s funny I am looking at you askance. In fact you’d best just stop reading now because you’re making me mad. Yeah, hit the road, Jack. And don’t read any more of my Epinions—I don’t want your lousy three cents. In fact take your pathetic, tiny mind and go and think about something interesting like the TV Guide. Oh and PS I hate your shoes. And by the way YES, those pants do make you look fat. …

Ahem. Apparently, it seems I am not quite over it. I do apologize, and I assure you I have taken a few deep breaths and have once again regained my composure.

Much has been made of the rabidity of the Tap fans. I will admit that it is possible that I could have, at one time, been seen as a rather enthusiastic fan. I admit to having seen the movie many, many times. Sometimes on sunny days, when I should have been outside. And yes, perhaps there was a time when things got a little ugly; a time when Spinal Tap showings started to feature prominently at our dinner parties. I have a vague recollection of one evening, perhaps a little too much wine, standing beside the television set, remote in hand, finger on pause button and chop stick as a makeshift pointer, stopping and starting play in case someone didn't get a joke.

"You're just not listening" I'd say to the person who didn't laugh.. "Here, I'll play it again--and this time, think "Cynical Marxism as a tactic of the capitalist empire" . Are you getting now? Do you see it?" Clapping my hands together like some sort of freaky girl Bob Fosse —FOCUS! FOCUS!

"What’s your favorite part?!" I’d demand to know "and I will not accept anymore ‘This-one goes-to-eleven’s!"

Do you know how people advise that if you are unsure of what to do at a social event you merely need to look at the hostess and do what she’s doing. Well, I’m ashamed to admit I would have none of that. Not about the forks—I couldn’t care less about the forks—I’m talking about the funniest lines from the movie. No just repeating my favorite lines. I wouldn’t accept that. No ma’am.

Oh, how I cringe now as I recall the looks on the faces of my terrified dinner guests, so desperately trying to come up with a unique answer. How they feared my wrath, those poor, poor guests (many of them were still starving student types then and I was one of the very few people who did not (and as God is my witness, never will) engage in that most reprehensible of modern entertaining customs known as the "pot luck").

"NO! Foil-covered cucumber in pants at airport security check has been mentioned already! Something else!" I’d say, waving my little chop stick in the most menacing of ways.

A friend of a friend dinner guest raised his hand—"I liked the part where they talked about how one of the drummers dies "In a bizarre gardening accident that the authorities deemed ‘…best left unsolved, really’ "

Good answer. (That guy has since become a very good friend).

(That by the way has become a very useful line in my own life. Like how I open the cupboard door to my husband’s two hundred obsessive-compulsively stacked recyclable cans and pitch one more can in there in a full out, not-at-all-girly throw, hear a very nasty sounding "thud-thunk" and then quickly close the door. And then when I later hear the tell-tale sound of a cacophony of cascading aluminum, and his petulant demands for information about "Who did this!?", just explain to him that "some mysteries really are best left unsolved, honey" (while casting a sideways, accusatory glance at the dog).

"Two word review of Spinal Tap’s album "Shark Sandwich" (Sh*t Sandwich)" another guest chimed in. I did accept that one, albeit reluctantly.

Oh and the poor chap who didn’t find it funny at all. In fairness to myself it would be an exaggeration to say he left my house impaled on any kind of eating utensil, but, (and I do, honestly, recoil in the retelling) when I think back I have to admit that there may have been some very slight blood loss. And a brief stop at the emergency room. But nothing more than that. Perhaps a tetanus shot. And a later, very minor, elective surgical procedure, but I hear he had to have a mole removed anyway (and hey, we’re Canadian—we have surgery for fun here—it’s free! )

(Pandering to Category Section)

This is Spinal Tap is simply the funniest movie ever made. It's so funny that you have to be careful to hold your breath and stifle your laughter so you don't miss anything. You must watch it at least three times to catch all of the jokes, because there are lots of them and many are subtle. If you appreciate satire, I promise you will enjoy this movie (or I will refund your three cents) because it parodies so many things and so many people, and does so in a side-splittingly funny kind of way as opposed to the aren’t-we-clever kind of way most satire is done.

From Rob Reiner's introduction you can see (presuming there’s not something seriously wrong with you ) that this is going to be a funny movie, as he describes the upcoming feature as a "Documentary...a "rock"-umentary, if you will" delivered with a Gene Shalit-like pause (you know, that combo chin-drop/pregnant pause thing he does just before he's about to deliver one of his very "clever" puns.)

In documentary fashion we follow Tap, dubbed England's Loudest Band, on one of their American tours, where they are disappointed to hear that Boston ticket sales are poor but their manager (who carries a cricket bat as a kind of Rock and Roll affectation –that just kills me for some reason) assures them is fine because "Boston isn’t really a big college town anyway". As the tour progresses the venues become smaller and the crowds less appreciative. Tensions mount; hilarity ensues!

"But enough of my yakkin’!"

Go rent it. Do it now. And laugh, baby, laugh.


(About the review title--it's the name of a Tap song--"It's the idea of taking sex, and putting it on a farm.", but also, let's face it, after two and a half months at Epinions, I am fully hip to the jive regarding non-member visits. Winkety wink).

Also, I am making all of that dinner party stuff up. No one was injured, ever, but someone was actually impaled by a chop stick at one of my parties, but that had nothing to do with Spinal Tap. See I'm kidding again.