a required taste for the pretentious as all get out





mystic movie-going
February 09, 2004, 8:10 pm

During Oscar season, I frequent the art house movie theater by my house and other matinees to see all the Best Picture nominees. It's something I do to make myself make informed opinions on the Award winners on the big night....right. It's actually just a ploy I hide behind so I can sound like a pretentious film elitist, the highest on the pop culture snobbery totem pole.

Most of all, I enjoy attending the movies by myself. There's no uncomfortable feelings during sex scenes, there's no neck pain associated with someone's limp arm elbowing your shoulder blades. It can be very restful and very liberating to see a movie by yourself...and afterwards, there's no hesitating on what you REALLY thought of the movie to see what the other person says first. It's a truly perfect dating-yourself thing to do, and I wholeheartedly enjoy it.

I took advantage of my sleeplessness from last night and my dwindling use of sick days and called in, then I hightailed it to an afternoon showing of Mystic River. 1:00 on a Monday, if my movie-employee stint reminds me of anything, is never particularly crowded (unless it's MLK Jr's birthday and Titanic is showing), but as much as I've taken myself alone to the movies, I was a bit surprised to be all alone in the theater.

What does one do in such a situation? AN ENTIRE MOVIE THEATER TO ONESELF. I could let my cell phone ring with wild abandon. I could lob Junior Mints at the screen to see if any would stick. I could color-code all the seats in the theater with gummi bears in rainbow patterns. I could yell obnoxious things at the screen for no apparent reason and not be shushed. I could masturbate freely and get off for REAL in a movie theater, not that fake moaning I did in high school while some awkward guy fumbled with my blouse. I could try to make out with Tim Robbins. I was silently saying the answers to the slide show name scrambles (without having to hear some other idiot scream the answer out loud before me--it was "Laura Linney") when I heard two ladies burst through the doors behind me.

"Well Ma, it looks like we'll get a seat after all!"

"Ooh! Look! Name scramble! It's, uh, uh...Lauren? Lauren who?"

"Ooh look, The Boss' Daughter. That looks cute. Did you see that one, Ma?"

"No, but that Adam Koocher is so cute, he can leave his shoes under my bed anytime he wants. Good for what's-her-name, the one with the breast implants."

"That's Demi Moore, Ma, she was married to Vin Diesel."

You would have thought with the influx of late-afternoon yuppies at that point (about fifteen people in the theater in all), they would have quieted down when the trailers started, but no.

"Ma, you know that Bill Murray was nominated for an Oscar?"

"Oooh! Wasn't he the Jerk?"

"No, that's Steve Martin. Father of the Bride."

"I thought that was Spencer Tracy."

And when the movie started...

"Oooh, look, she blames him!"

"Oh my God, can you imagine? Look at that girl!"

"It's the boyfriend!"

"It can't be him, it's the dad."

"I'm telling you, the boyfriend did it."

But I liked these women. They reminded me that had I been in the theater with someone else, I would have squeezed his hand and said the same things (although I called the real culprit 43 minutes into the movie...see...I have something to prove). I almost wanted to rush into see Calendar Girls and imagine what they'd say as breasts were revealed on-screen: "BUNS! HA!"

In other news, the Baby Biensoul has a diary. It is exactly what she needs right now, and I'm proud she's spewing forth some emotional baggage. Now, if she'd only adhere to capitalization rules...just kidding. I heart you, you know.

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