Let’s Go To the Movies!

Oh, boy! It’s June of 1980; I’m 12 years old, and Mom and Dad are taking me to see The Empire Strikes Back this weekend! Holy fucking shit! That’s gonna rule!

I can’t wait to see Darth Vader again, and Luke Skywalker and shit, and did you see the preview with the big walking robots on the snow planet? I can’t fucking wait! Yes! Thanks, Mom and Dad!

I’m going to go to our small, modest Midwestern town theater, Dad’s gonna pay $3 for my ticket, and STILL probably give me another $3 for popcorn and a Pepsi.

Then the movie will start, and it’ll be all like “vrooooosh” and “weeeeeeeeeeowwwww” and HOLY SHIT LUKE IS GONNA MEET DARTH VADER AND FIGHT HIM WITH LIGHTSABERS! OH, HELL FUCKING YES! I just KNOW this movie will rip my little 12 year old nuts off, shove them up my nose, and then smash me in the nose with a hammer, causing my already ripped off nuts to shoot out onto the guy in front of me!

Oh, boy! It’s June of 2005! I’ve been waiting for SIX YEARS to see the return of Batman to the screen. Batman Begins. I can’t wait. This flick’s directed by Chris Nolan, who directed two of my favorite movies (Memento and Following). This guy knows how to make a movie, and can pull of Batman with style, substance, and a minimum of camp. Nolan’s got a skill that makes me, an adult, want to see a movie about a guy dressed like a flying rat with a rubber fetish. Did you see that Batmobile in the previews? Holy shit!

I’m going to go to our local Googolplex theater complex and wait in line for about 30 minutes, barely making our show! The theater will be cavernous, but somehow claustrophobic. I’ll spend $10, TEN FUCKING DOLLARS, per ticket to get in, and probably another FOURTEEN FUCKING DOLLARS on a medium soda and medium popcorn.

I’ll go to my luxurious box suite… oh, wait, no I won’t. For those prices, all you get is the normal cloth-and-vermin covered seat, that, while only moderately uncomfortable, is probably crawling with pestilence and head lice.

Once I’ve settled in, and promptly spilled my entire popcorn all over the floor, The Kicking of the Back of My Seat will commence. I will be mad that this one inconsiderate asshole is sitting directly behind me. However, I will quickly realize that due to the shitty layouts of these theaters and the theater’s practice of overselling, EVERY OTHER PERSON IN THE THEATER is behind me, and they will ALL BE KICKING MY CHAIR. It seems that I’m in the first row, unable to even take in the full view of the mammoth screen without panning my head left to right.

The advertisements will start. Yes, the advertisements. I will have skipped my fucking car payment this month to watch a goddamned, motherfucking, ass-eating, son-of-a-bitching Coca-fucking-Cola commercial. I will suppress a scream.

Mrs. Sam I Am will have given me an OxyContin to soothe my nerves and prepare me for the 2 ½ hours of previews. I used to love to watch the previews! When there were four or so of them. Now there are no less than eleventy thousand.  Ahhh… the familiar, soothing words: “Coming soon from Imagine Entertainment…” Wait! Go no further! I would LOVE to imagine some entertainment! Start the fucking movie already!

Then, finally, the film I have waited years to see will begin!

So will the talking…

Yes, the talking. The incessant Talking of the Shitheads. The entire theater will be engaged in some form of conversation… as if they forgot why they’re at the theater in the first place and need to solicit advice and direction from each other. It’s almost as if they thought they were spending their money to come into some sort of large conversation arena and a movie just happened to break out as a back drop bonus.

At this point, the OxyContin will have completely faded, washed out of my system by waves of rage. I will be fondling my chrome plated .38 in my jacket pocket, and wondering how many assholes I’ll have to waste before the other clowns get the message. Mrs. Sam I Am will try to calm me down and get me to watch the movie… a task which I have already deemed physically impossible, since I’ll be sitting 3 feet away from a 90 foot screen.

Eventually, in a last ditch attempt to avoid jail time, she’ll convince me to give up the whole charade and go home. I’ll walk out the exit that floods the theater with the maximum amount of light from the outside, and hold the door open for a good 30 seconds. Someone will call me a prick. I will shoot that fucker dead.

We’ll drive home in silence. When we get to our home, I’ll hop in the internet and look for some porn to calm my nerves. Instead, I’ll come across an article about how Hollywood is having their worst year in decades, and how it’s all internet piracy’s fault.

And then my head will explode.

Sam is one of our oldest friends, and we've been bugging him to write something since we started this site.

It was worth the wait.