Rudy Schwartz's Reviews

I can't really say I hate this movie. To truly hate a movie, you need to be awake during at least two thirds of it. But had I not been drinking a large glass of wine, it is entirely possible I would have maintained consciousness and truly hated this movie.

I finished off a bottle of Les Cigales Témoignage Du Passé, a cheap but not bad French red semi dry. To be honest, it would have been better with some pasta and marinara sauce or maybe a roasted chicken, but I wasn't really hungry tonight. That happens more and more as I get older, particularly when I have a late lunch. Plus I hit one of those all you can eat buffet places, so I really wasn't in the mood for a meal. The last thing I need is acid reflux at two in the morning. Besides, when I wake up like that, during the REM phase of my sleep, I usually end up remembering my dreams, and that's usually not good. A couple of nights ago I had to get up at 4:30 to take my wife to the airport, and for some reason I had been dreaming about Andy Griffith putting butter and maple syrup on Opie's pancakes. How does shit like that get into my subconscious and pop up in a dream? And why isn't Aunt Bea buttering Opie's pancakes? Isn't that her fucking job? I mean, aside from making those county fair pickles that suck.

So Ivan Marx introduces this Big Foot movie and tells us that it's "authentic." I guess that means that it's authentically produced by Ivan Marx. Then he tells you about what a skeptic he is, and also about how skilled he is at "tracking." According to Wikipedia:

Tracking in hunting is the science and art of observing a place through animal footprints and other signs, including: tracks, beds, chews, scat, hair, etc.

It's interesting that they would mention scat. I would be curious how much Ivan Marx relied on scat while doing his research. Fortunately, he's dead.

The next time I woke up, there were some coyote cubs. Gosh, they're awfully cute. Not sure what the connection is with Bigfoot. Then Ivan mentions something about running out of money and not being able to continue his research. Then I dozed off again.

The phone rang. My landlord says that he's not responsible for ice removal. We've had an unseasonable amount of snow this year, and the mailman is complaining about the ice. Anyway, the landlord says I should take it up with the people who run the apartment complex. I threw about twenty pounds of salt on the shit today, and it barely made a dent. I could really use a decent shovel.

Hey, there's a raccoon on the TV now. Ivan must see a lot of them when he's out looking for Bigfoot. Man, my bladder is about to pop. What time is it anyway?

The next time I regain consciousness, Ivan is gloating at the so-called experts who have doubted him, because now he has incontrovertible proof. A hundred yards away from his camera, a guy in a gorilla suit is limping around in the weeds. Amazing stuff. I guess that settles it. Phone the Museum of Natural History.

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