u s e y o u r h a n d s

This weekend, I decided to take a break from my incessant harping about the weather and see a movie by myself. When I lived alone, I loved to go to the movies alone. I probably saw four or five movies a week, usually in the musty darkness of decrepit art house theatres. Ever wonder about the identity of that one person that bought a ticket to the ultra-depressing Kurdish orphan movie A Time For Drunken Horses? That was me.

But I’ve gotten out of the habit lately. I haven’t had nearly the level of disposable income I’m comfortable with and movies cost more here than they do in the second-run houses in Pasadena. But I’m working consistently now and decided to take in a matinee showing of Chicago, the lauded musical-to-movie starring Catherine Zeta-Jones, Renee Zellweger, and the odious Richard Gere. It was lovely and all the performances were excellent. Queen Latifah stole the movie with her turn as a lesbian prison matron. Indeed.

But I’m not writing about the movie. The movie’s good and reviewers more talented and long-winded than myself can tell you more. I’m writing about the line outside of the movie. Actually, about line behavior in general. Observe any movie line and, friend, you’ll observe the decay of civilization entirely. Or just annoying things.

First, an annoyance not necessarily restricted to lines but I saw several instances of it in this particular line: the lift ticket clipped conspicuously to a North Face pullover. I have nothing against the skiers of this world. Ski and be happy, I say. However, I do have a serious problem with “This is my badge of coolness” behavior. I am no purist; bar, resort, university, city t-shirts are ok. People like to remember vacations, etc. However, corp. logos are strictly prohibited. Nobody’s paying you to be a billboard for Adidas. Still wearing your lift ticket in a region with no hills is tantamount to doing a tap dance and shouting, “I have been to Colorado or Vermont to ski. Perhaps, apres ski, a good looking Swede stumbled into my arms and we engaged in highly acrobatic sex before a roaring fire, our freshly tanned faces glistening with fluids.” I am glad you went skiing, but you are no longer skiing. Please take off the lift ticket.

The line smoker. This is so common, I almost don’t notice it anymore. Almost. I understand that most regular smokers are addicted to the evil weed and two hours without in a theatre can be trying. You’ll want to smoke pre-film. It’s understandable. However, do not ever, ever, ever smoke in line. Get your tickets, then smoke. Can’t you do that for me? If you’ll relent, next time I won’t throw chewed gum in the furry collar of your vintage-store coat.

Family films. Kangaroo Jack, penned by Liz Hurley’s baby’s daddy and panned by everyone under the sun, serves one purpose: entertain the kids so designated parent can catch up on sleep in the theatre. That’s fine. I don’t begrudge children a little mindless entertainment. Maybe this marsupial movie will reinfect America with ’80s-era Aussie fever. Ready thyself, Yahoo Serious. So what’s my beef? Hearing excitement about the movie reminded me of seeing a few incredibly bad movies with my grandmother: Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot! starring Sylvester Stallone and Golden Girl Estelle Getty; License to Drive with an efflorescing Heather Graham; and Encino Man featuring Hobbitt Sean Astin and Pauly Shore. Damn you, Webster Place, for making me flinch at my deeply misguided youth.

These transgressions, some minor, some major, stifled not my movie excitement. I purchased my ticket and queued up for refreshments. I ordered a child’s popcorn (because it’s plenty). The attendant noted, “Hey, for fifty cents more, you’ll get twice as much.” Wryly, I replied, “Yes, that’s the problem.” Unfortunately, I also got a sizeable beverage. My wee bladder regretted this purchase for the last quarter of the movie. As I hobbled toward the bathroom – gasp! – another line.

Overheard: [at Kopi, a teacher reading a student's paper aloud] “Playing tequila volleyball right before your flight home from Cancun isn’t a good idea.”

[at work, just now] “There can be no whipping.”

Reading: Started on The Corrections last night. I enjoy it.