You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.™
Going to the movies.
It’s a rainy Saturday. The clouds are dark and moisture is heavy in the air. Playing outside is not an option, FACEBOOK is a bore and TV has become visual wall paper.
How do you know when you are wasting your time watching TV?When you are watching the NASA channel and you have to go to the bathroom, but you won’t go until the solid rocket booster (SRB for those of you who are NASA geeks) separates and falls back into the Earth’s atmosphere.
I shut the power off on the flat panel.
“You wanna go to a movie?” I yell to the 12 year old.
“You still watching the NASA channel?”
“The SRB separated. I’m done with TV.”
“That’s exciting. Can I invite a friend?” he shouts back.
“Sure.”
“OK”
We arrive at the theater. There’s a light drizzle in the air. Cars are everywhere. A crowd has gathered in front of the building.
“What the …”
Is this a Harry Potter demonstration or a protest at a European economic summit.
I half way expect to see tear gas canisters lobbed into the parking lot.
Dumbledore is the devil! I say silently in my head.
A devious smile hangs on my lips.
“Why’s it so crowded?” the 12 year old asks.
And that is when it hits me. Saturday + Rainy day = crowded theater.
Damn!
The rain has done little to cool things down. It’s 95 degrees outside. Perhaps all these people are here for some free air conditioning. Perhaps Harry Potter is going to be giving away free samples of pot. It is impossible to know at this moment.
We drive down row after row of cars dodging insouciant teenagers. This recalcitrant army is meandering aimlessly. They act like they will live forever, like cats with extra lives to burn. These dyspeptic sub-humans either don’t care that cars are whipping in and out of parking spots, or they are oblivious to it.
“Hey kid how bout pulling your eye balls out of the smart phone and watch where you’re going,” I say shouting into the windshield, narrowly missing a kid wearing a stocking cap. “I’m an old dude and old dudes love running over smart ass teenagers.”
My 12 year old looks at me like I’m crazy.
And when did wearing a wool Jamaican colored cap become cool in the heat of summer?
Before I can pontificate about this teenage nonsense, a space at the edge of humanity opens up.
We park at the end of a row, so far from the complex, I need to consult GPS before locking the car doors. We’re so far away, my kid asks me if the world is flat.
We play a modern day game of Frogger in the parking lot as cars randomly back out of parking spots almost running us down.
Does nobody care for human life anymore? Is looking behind your car before you tap the accelerator no longer a requirement in the driving manual.
We get to the lobby and the line is pulsing out the door. People are waiting within the velvet serpentine ropes to pay the pimple faces in the glass box.
The air conditioning is wonderful. The wait will not be.
OH Damn! I exclaim.
It’s 4pm. Our movie is in 20 minutes. I doubt we’ll make it.
I check the movie show times.
Then I see it plastered across the digital board.
SOLD OUT
What now? I think to myself.
We have come to see Zookeeper with Kevin James. It looks funny. Animals talk. A gorilla wants to go to TGIF. Why not.
And it is sold out? It debuted weeks ago. Sold out? Really? Is America so bored they would watch NASA TV or make Zookeeper their cinematic choice of the day?
I check the screen further. It’s like reading a stock ticker on Wall Street.
HARRY POTTER: SOLD OUT.
COWBOYS AND ALIENS: SOLD OUT.
SMURFS 3-D. 4:30
Oh my God! Smurfs 3-D? Is that my only option?
Just then the 12 year old’s friend arrives.
He has spent his whole day at the movie theater. He looks amped on Nuclear Gummy Worms.
“I just watched Smurfs,” he says.
“How was it,” we ask.
“sucked,” he says in a smart ass 12 year old way.
I look at the board. SMURFS: Sold out.
WTF! In 10 seconds it sells out.
I scan the board further. The only movies are either R rated or lamer than Smurfs.
I am about to ask the boys if they want to go to a gentleman’s club when…
I see a 4:30pm showing for Transformers.
“You guys want to see Transformers?” I say as we inch closer to the pimple faces in the glass box.
In true 12 year old fashion, both boys shrug.
I wonder if they sell Tequila at the candy counter.
We get to the booth and a pimple face with a maroon vest, crooked bow tie and braces says with the passion of a boated carp; “what show?”
“Transformers still available?” I ask.
The pimple face shows no emotion as he pushes the button.
“How many?”
“Two 12 year olds and one old dude,” I say referencing myself with a smile.
“Do I get a break for two 12 year olds and an old guy?”
The pimple puss in the glass box punches the button.
“18 dollars.”
I hand him a 20 realizing that pimple puss is in no mood to play. I am another faceless movie zombie to this kid who is getting paid minimum wage and being forced to wear a bow tie in an event that has nothing to do with the prom.
We walk to the candy counter. It looks like a Mexican border crossing.
The only thing missing are little kids and old women in ponchos selling Chicklets Gum and Paintings of velvet Jesus.
There are pimple faced ushers everywhere directing the crowd into various lines that don’t seem to go anywhere.
I notice that I am one of the few adults not clutching a reusable
10-gallon popcorn bucket.
Who the hell brings their own popcorn tub to the theater I wonder.
Apparently everyone. I see that popcorn sells for 100 dollars and that’s before lard is applied. The bucket says refills are $3.50.
Should have bought a bucket, I think to myself.
I watch pimple pusses behind the counter move in slovenly slow motion. Somewhere a gigantic clock is ticking reminding me that the movie starts in just a few minutes.
I glance at the line to enter the theaters. Comfortably numb patrons are lined up against the wall like extras in a Pink Floyd video.
I hand the boys their tickets and tell them to go get three seats just in case Transformers is packed.
I wait in the candy line and watch as cast members of The Biggest Loser buy movie munchies that are decidedly unhealthy and most definitely expensive.
I see Popcorn buckets big enough to strap on as a feed bag. I see gigantic Cokes that Shamu could swim in. I see Chocolate bars and Reeces Pieces and sugar coated sugar.
How fat is America getting I wonder to myself.
I watch cellulite jiggle and extra chins bounce as the line moves with the alacrity of curdled milk.
Finally, it’s my turn. I order for the boys and get a water for myself.
The pimple puss stares through me, his level of professionalism set to a mediocre “who cares.”
I enter the dark theater and look up the rows.
I see the beam of light flickering through the darkness. “where the hell are those boys?” I think to myself.
I am expecting a wave, a whispered “hey dad” anything. But all I get is a cold shoulder from a movie theater full of dark zombie faces.
I walk up the stairs as the preview for the next Conan movie thunders around me.
IN A WORLD HAUNTED BY DARKNESS
ONE WARRIOR WILL EMERGE
CONAN
The announcer’s voice is so resonant, so deep, I have to look to see who the new Conan the Barbarian is.
Sadly, I remember when it was Arnold Schwarzenegger.
I find the boys.
Last row in the theater.
I shuffle past a young couple who are ready to start groping one another.
I get to my 12 year old.
“You guys afraid to be irradiated by the screen?”
Huh?
Both boys look at me like I am an old reptile.
I sit down as the movie begins. I need binoculars.
The line was long, but at least it kept me from watching 20 minutes of commercials and previews.
2 hours later. It’s over. We exit the dark theater disoriented and stiff legged. My ears are ringing from the destruction of countless decepticon ships.
We enter the lobby and see it is even more packed with more people sucking up more air conditioning.
The candy line is a pulsing amoeba of heart attacks waiting to happen. There are old folks and teeny boppers.
I push open the doors and the vacuum of cool air rushes into the sweltering heat. The convergence of radical temperatures makes a pop like a bug zapper eradicating flies.
We walk through a sea of parked cars and families and texting teenagers.
“Did you like it boys?”
The friend says; “This was my fourth time.”
“You’ve seen this four times?”
“Yep.”
I guess that’s why he could get up 2 times to get soda, and use the bathroom and not worry about missing anything.
We get to the car. Other vehicles are parked on the grass and in no parking zones.
If this is any indication, America is spending money for local entertainment, for local snacks, for local fun.
I don’t know if Disney World is making money, but Thoroughbred 20 sure is doing gang buster business.
And that is crazy.™