People who hear me say how much I like “bad movies” often misunderstand. I find myself clarifying the terminology for them. You see, I don’t like “so bad they’re good” movies. I don’t like camp; cult; or B, C, or Z movies. I don’t like dumb comedies; I don’t like exploitation films; I don’t like straight-to-cable movies. I don’t like Roger Corman or Ed Wood. I like movies where a director with a limited understanding of character development and narrative arc and an inflated sense of his own abilities has been given a 150-million-dollar budget to blow things up. With sincerity. Sincerity is crucial. And there should be really hot shirtless guys. I like to see every dollar I paid for my ticket on the screen. I like to see an explosion before the opening credits, if possible one where a car blows up and then rolls over, still blowing up, and lands on another car so that that the second car blows up also. And I don’t like to hear any nonsense about physics and what’s “possible.” The Fast and Furious franchise, like the late, lamented “XXX” franchise (a victim of Vin Diesel’s hubris before the vagaries of the action-star machine cut him down to his own, still formidable size) delivers what I require. When the fifth installment, cleverly named Fast Five, opened on April 29th, I was ready. I had procured tickets to the 12:01am show at the biggest screen in town, the geek-loved Century Cinema in Corte Madera, in advance. My boyfriend, who had not previously been subjected to the Fast Franchise, had no idea what to expect. And sadly, showing an action movie with an interracial cast featuring rap stars in one of the most expensive suburbs in America was a mistake; we pulled up into a nearly deserted parking lot and joined just half a dozen rowdy young guys inside the theater. All of us were truly happy to be there, though, and when the opening credits rolled I confess I yelled, “WHOOOOHOO!!”. By the fifteen minute mark I was laughing hysterically and my poor boyfriend was baffled. Why is someone driving a truck into the side of a moving train entertainment? Well, why not? What do you want, Ibsen? Plus, Fast Five has shirtless Paul Walker. Sadly, Tyrese keeps his shirt on.   I’m enormously grateful to the F&F team for kicking off a summer of Extreme Entertainment, a summer that may go down in history as the one where I don’t have to see a single movie with a credible plot. A summer where every movie I see cost at least 150 million dollars to make. (That’s more than the GDP of the Micronesian island nation of Kiribati. FYI.) So far I’ve already seen Thor (shirtless Chris Hemsworth), which I enjoyed very much.   I’m looking forward to Priest, with shirtless Paul Bettany, tonight. And the schedule gets rigorous from here. Here’s how it breaks down. May 20: Pirates of the Caribbean Whatever (eyeshadow Johnny Depp.) June 3: X-Men First Class ( X-Men. Nuff said.) June 10: Super-8 (splodey with aliens. Downside: kids.) June 17: Green Lantern (shirtless Ryan Reynolds.) July 1: Transformers Whatever (splodey with splodey. Nobody does it like Michael Bay.) July 15: Harry Potter Whatever (probability of shirtless Daniel Radcliffe.) July 22: Captain America (shirtless Chris Evans.) July 29: Cowboys and Aliens (shirtless Daniel Craig.) Aug. 5: Rise of the Planet of the Apes (is James Franco too intellectual to take his shirt off now? Unknown.) Aug. 19: Conan the Barbarian (shirtless Hawaiian model Jason Momoa. Actually, this guy is TOO buff. They should give him a shirt.) Aug. 26: Apollo 18 (space horror, no shirtlessness.) Cleverly, I frontloaded the boyfriend movie tolerance meter by accompanying my Rand-fan BF to the interminable, execrable, leaden Atlas Shrugged. He owes me. It’s going to be a long summer for him.