Movie-Groaning Experience

I used to love going to the movies. Watching a flick with my friends and a bucket full of popcorn on a gigantic screen in surround sound was one of the best, and relatively cheapest, things to do. Maybe it’s my age (43) but I really think everything about the whole movie-going experience has changed, and for the worst. Read this in the voice of Grandpa Simpson. I know that’s how it sounds to me.

Stadium seating and TXH Surround Sound® is wonderful but what the Hell happened to the patrons? Of the last ten movies I’ve seen in the theatre (yes, the French spelling means I’m sophisticated), and they’ve all been in the past year, none have been without someone there to piss on my parade. I am a magnet for the self-indulgent; people who continually outdo each other in ways to distract me for approximately 90 to 120 minutes.

If I go to see a family-friendly flick like Shrek 1, 2 or 3 or Happy Feet, the more kids the merrier. I love hearing their excitement and laughter. I do not expect a quiet, experience; it’s a party. When I go to see an intense adult flick like Disturbia, I don’t expect to see infants and three year-olds. I understand every parent deserves a break, but putting your kids through the Turkish prison, ball-suspension torture sequence in Midnight Express because you couldn’t find a sitter is freaking ridiculous.

Just two days ago there were three women who came into the theatre after the movie already started (in the row directly behind me of course) and spoke to each other throughout the movie (about the movie!) at conversational volume. So did the couple to the left of me. Then there was the dude checking his blackberry every 10 minutes-it really can’t wait two hours?! And a text-messager in front of me. The theatre is nice and dark and I get white trails in my eyes because of the nuclear glow of a cell phone. I know this is the information age and people can now handle simultaneous streams of input, but I can’t. Not during my stories!

I love the reclining seats in the stadium-style theatres, but that just forces my head into my knees with a side of whiplash when the back of my chair gets kicked every time Lurch re-crosses his legs.

Oh I used to turn around and give them the stare but apparently I’m not very threatening and it just encourages more kicking or talking or texting.

I went to see Hot Fuzz and we were the only people in the theatre. And it was a really nice theatre with individual trays and leather seats. By the time the previews ended and the movie started, there were only eight of us! – all within six feet of each other. Why do you all have to sit next to me, in front of me and behind me? You could have your own section! Why didn’t I move? Once I sit I don’t like to change my seat – call it a neurosis; maybe I’m just that damn lazy. The woman two seats down had a big bag of Doritos®, which she ate two at a time. And she’s the only adult I’ve ever seen who actually chews each bite 32 times. Lucky me. It was like Girls Gone Wild Kingdom. At least she didn’t bray.

Then there are the plot-guessers. I do this when I watch TV so I know how annoying it is, but I don’t do it at the theatre. “Oh it was him. I know he killed her. He knew the code, he was the only one who was at the campus that morning, and he was totally screwing her sister. And he's a Latin professor who drives a Lexus with two worn tires. Can we go now? This was too easy.”

Or the plot-spoilers. Every time I go to see a sci-fi flick, there’s a kid within earshot who’s seen it three times already. And he can’t wait to tell his friend what’s about to happen next. “He dies here.” “He’s really a ghost.” “That's his dad but he doesn't know it yet.”

And my favorite, the play-by-play announcer. “Oh, she didn't like that. She’s getting in the car. She’s slamming the door. She’s driving away. He's running after her! She's getting away...” Excuse me, we're watching this as you are. We don't need audio captioning!

But it isn’t just the young patrons. I take my daughter to afternoon matinees and it’s like a Matlock convention. Just like me, retired folk love the matinee prices (I think they’re only $9.50 now) and they can be home for dinner by 4:00. Problem is, many of them can’t see or hear very well, so they ask their spouse or caretaker for help. Actually, they yell for it.

Grandpa Moses: “What did she say?!!”
Nurse Ratchett: “She said 'I don’t take it up the ass,' Stan.”
Grandpa Moses: “The what?!”
Nurse Ratchett: “The ass, Stan!”
Grandpa Moses: “Oh…shame.”

Regal Entertainment Group, who kindly brought “The Twenty” to my local theatre –

TANGENT: Really? Ticket prices are now $12.50 and everything on the concession menu is eight bucks and I have to sit through advertisements?! Which you get paid for?! If you dropped the ticket price, or even reduced the size of the small soda to two liters, I’d support you, but jeez!

– is testing out a Guest Response System. Movie-goers can alert management of any disturbances with an in-theatre paging device. If they picked me, I’d be buzzing in on that f'ing clicker like Rush Limbaugh on his morphine drip. The theatre would be empty and I could enjoy my movie without ring tones, the blackberry glow, conversations, cud-chewing/lip-smacking/bag-diving gluttons, plot guessers, pivotal moment-spoilers, Marv Albert, or seat-kickers.

Guess I should just stay home next time, huh?

I do have to admit my favorite part of going to the movies is the “In Case of Emergency” clip they run before every movie. It’s about 30 years old and has tons of lines and black spots and a really crappy soundtrack (like an old driver’s ed film). The voiceover says:

“In case of emergency, please walk, do not run, to the nearest emergency exit.” [PAUSE A BEAT] “This notice required by law.”

Cracks me up every time. Why do you tell us this notice is required by law? Couldn’t we just for a moment pretend that you care about your patrons, your fellow human beings?

“We actually don’t care if y’all die in a fire, flood or stampede. We left 20 minutes ago. But we had to tell you. It’s the law.”

Stairway Etiquette

Last week, a friend of mine, Dan, scared the bejesus out of me when we he walked past me on the stairs at work. Why? He didn’t jump out or yell or trip me or anything like that. He simply said hello. The reason it scared me? Because I don’t look up when I’m on the stairs. I stare at my feet. Not because I’m so uncoordinated I may lose the stairway rhythm and stumble (that happens no matter where I’m looking). It’s because I’m totally self-conscious on public staircases. Not of my own lack of balance; it’s from the asses in front of me.

Think about it. Although the mechanical design of a staircase is sound for getting people from one story to the next (it’s better than ramps everywhere), the social design is entirely flawed. If you walk one stair behind the person in front of you, you’re essentially spooning and will get elbowed, slapped or called into the HR office for invading personal space. Plus you really don’t want to know what they had for breakfast through deduction. So we allow at least two, usually three, stairs between ourselves and the next person. However, at three stairs apart, when you look forward, you’re staring into the ass of a stranger; or worse, a colleague. Male or female, it’s just as frightening. So I stare at my feet to avoid seeing the ass of someone else consume my field of view. I’m sure I appear ridiculous or antisocial to others, but that’s OK.

I can’t look forward. It’s like having a conversation with someone who has a lazy eye. I try to play it cool and repeat in my head “stare at the bridge of their nose, stare at the bridge!” That way they feel like it’s genuine eye contact and I may not even notice their involuntary meandering. Instead I panic – I become captivated by the wandering eye and follow its every move like Emmitt Smith on the dance floor.

Hopefully you’ll be self-conscious the next time you hit the stairs at work or the mall so I don’t have to face my neuroses alone.

[Postscript: An Afterword]
Not sure if you care, but there are reasons for my self-consciousness on stairways that I thought I’d explain. When I walk behind a woman (a stranger), I notice when her pace quickens, or her back tightens, or she clutches her purse closer to her body. It kills me. I want to say, “Excuse me… I won’t touch you, rob you, rape you, or hurt you in any way.” But I don’t say anything and I certainly don’t take it personally because I understand. It’s the way of the world and you have to be cautious, aware of your surroundings at all times and keep your guard up.

And even if not threatened, I don’t want a woman to assume I’m staring at her ass. Or when facing each other, anything but her face. You know the old joke a woman says to a man: “Turn around. Now, what color are my eyes?” So when I talk to a woman, I look at her eyes, take note of the color just in case I’m ever pop-quizzed and fight the urge to look anywhere else – not because of a sexual deviancy, but because when someone says don’t look here, what’s the first thing you do? Yes, I overthink everything and constantly put myself into these ridiculous predicaments that are entirely self-created. Woody Allen ain’t got nothin’ on me.

And I’ve got to be one of the most non-threatening people on the planet. I’m not quite 5’6” and don’t have a swagger in my step, or an imaginary board up my bum. But I learned this because I am the cut point in any line. Anywhere there is a long line (waiting to board a plane, waiting to pee at an outdoor concert, or waiting to see Randy, Paula and Simon), I am the person that people walk in front of (and usually clip with their purse or elbow) when there is no gap in a line they need to cut through in a perpendicular fashion. No apologies or a “pardon me”. It’s almost like I’m not there. And they are never worried about my retaliation, which they somehow know just isn’t coming.

I’m not complaining about being viewed as threatening or entirely non-threatening; I just wish y’all would be consistent, that’s all.

Next week: Pranking people who insist on reading their BlackBerries while walking.

Oh, they’re [brown] [blue] [green] [hazel] [amber] [Thriller yellow] [bloodshot].

What happened to the wave?

OK, it’s been a while so I apologize. I’ve had writer’s block and nothing seemed that funny to me. Today, my buddy Don suggested a rant (you’re a savior!), and I knew what he meant immediately. First, we’re not talking about the “spontaneous” stadium event where people create a human wave of bodies that crest in unison, yet never in synch with an actual defensive play or point scored. That wave I hate. Truly. However, I do enjoy when a second wave is started, and it ends up canceling out the first, just like a giant physics experiment. People, it’s not original, clever, cute or remotely fun. Look, if you’re going to start something in public, why the wave? Why don’t you call out a racist, or a homophobe, or a misogynist? “Hey. That shit ain’t funny and neither are you. If your IQ 22 cousin-parents were here instead of the Monster Truck Klan Rally Revival, I’d bitch-slap them for the horrible job they did raising you. I guess since they’re not here I’ll just have to just bitch-slap you.” Wa-pow!

No, the wave Don was speaking of is the “much obliged” wave you get when letting someone in on the crowded highway. You know, the way it used to be when folks would thank you properly for the favor. You see a motorist in the left lane that’s about to end, and their license plate is out of state, and there are no gaps to be found in their need to merge right. So you slow down and let them gracefully slide on over. The courteous thing for them to do is wave their hand in front of their rearview mirror, acknowledging your random act of kindness. But it rarely (if ever) happens these days. Why is that? If someone does you a solid, at least acknowledge the gesture.

Even the asshole who isn’t from out of state, who flies up the left lane, whipping in at the last minute to be as far ahead in line as physically possible before being run into a ditch – and feels so self-important and entitled that he deserves to be in front of everyone else. Even that guy used to throw up a wave, as if you meant to let him in. It would almost make you laugh. Almost. (Secretly, I would hope for the photon lasers lying dormant in my eyes to finally energize and blast the hell out of the back of his Acura Integra, or Ford Windstar, but the probability of that happening is pretty remote. About as remote as ExxonMobil, ShellTexaco and AmocoBP giving back the unregulated profits they’ve stolen from all of us, and will continue to do so until we find a way to travel that doesn’t require fossil fuels. Ironically, they didn’t have the courtesy of administering petroleum jelly, which they have in sheer abundance, before drilling us, the US consumers.)

Look, whether you’ve been given the gap or you force one, toss a wave. It won’t kill you and it may prevent the back of your vehicle from being laser-torched, or rammed, or accidentally bumped, or given a really nasty look from the driver behind you.