Over the last week, I have watched the entire Fast and the Furious series. The impetus for embarking on such an artistically dubious project was a promise that I made years ago to my husband, probably while drunk. I told him that the next time I was struck with the sort of mind-numbing illness that allows one to do little besides produce mucus, I would watch the entire series and write about it. I rarely get sick, my husband has a terrible memory, and at the time, there were only four films in the canon. I assumed I would never have to make good on my promise. I was wrong.
Up until this point in my life, the most significant thing that could be said of my relationship with the Fast and Furious oeuvre is that I had never seen them at all. In the 17 years since the first