Monthly Archives: January 2017

Art House

Years ago I went to a little art house theater to see a movie. Yes, that’s right, it was not my choice. I was forced to go. I was dating this woman who would make me do things like that ‘for my own good’. I’m sure that plus factors in this story are some of the reasons we didn’t last.

I’m being told about this movie as we’re going there. If you’re going to tell me everything about a movie before I get to the movie isn’t that defeating the reason I’m going to that movie? Well before I get there I’m pretty much up on the story line. It’s the story of a female necrophiliac who works in a funeral parlor. Okay now, I pretty much know where this is going. Can I save the fifty bucks and go grab a beer?

I don’t remember the name of the movie and I’m too lazy to look it up or call my friends over at reelingreviews.com. They’d know in a heartbeat but I guess I just don’t care enough to find out. I mean, how much more do you have to know other than ‘a woman likes guys but only if they’re very, very, very cold to her’?

So we get to this majestic old theater (I don’t remember if it actually was those things, it could have been creaky and smelly, but, by law, that’s how you have to describe arty theaters) and grab our seats. They’re in the front row of the balcony. It reminds me of my youth when I’d be up there finger blasting a date. But there will be none of that tonight. Because my date is alive.

The movie plays and it was good. I must say that the director had to love the female lead (you know, the corpse fucker) because when she was shot it was as beautiful as any cinematic frame you’ve ever seen. I also remember thinking, “Damn, I wouldn’t want to be a twenty to thirty year old guy living in that city because they seem to die in droves.” I don’t remember one ‘age appropriate’ dead guy. But the youths of that fine city were ripe of the picking.

The movie ends and I’m starting to leave when the manager comes in. Being an ‘art house’ the assemblage sits back down. I don’t know what’s happening. Maybe there’s going to be a raffle. Or maybe she’s going to announce the sequel set in a cryogenic lab called ‘Fifty Ways To Freeze Your Lover.’ I don’t know but we’re all going to have to listen.

“As stated we do have some food and drink in the lobby. But, and I know how disappointing this is, the films director was detained so will not be able to be here for the scheduled Q and A.” As people react to this unfortunate news I whisper to my date,

“Why can’t she be here? Is she fucking a corpse?”

At least I thought it was a whisper. By the looks I received from the, now angry, manager and others it wasn’t as whispery as I thought. I looked at the glowering manager, shrugged my shoulders and said,

“Valid question.”

By her swift exit I saw that she didn’t see the validity. My date punches me on my arm and we start to exit. But first she has to pee. All the way to the rest rooms I’m being told what kind of classless buffoon I am. Having heard that many times before it hardly registers. We arrive at the rest room and there is a line for the ladies room. Not for the mens so, to avoid listening to how much of a jackass I am, I go in.

It’s quiet in there. No oneĀ is at the urinals but I can hear someone mucking about in the stall. I pay no mind and go about my business. I hear the toilet flush and the stall door unlock. I didn’t see the person passing me until they went to the sink and said hi.

I turned and said hi to her.

While still pissing I started to chuckle. I told her she was the smartest woman in the place. She laughed and we had a little conversation while I finished up. After mere seconds of polite talk she takes a step back, points at me and says,

“You’re the guy who asked if the director was fucking a corpse.”

“I am. I didn’t think anyone would hear me.”

“Oh, everyone did.”

“Damn fine acoustics.”

Laughing, we finish drying our hands and begin to exit. We’re laughing and chatting while I hold the door open for her. We exit and standing directly in front of the door is my date.

She looks at me, at the woman, sees that we’re both laughing and, shaking her head in despair or disgust (they’re so close in my life I can’t tell the difference) and says,

“You’re the only person who could go into a men’s room alone and come out with a laughing woman.”

It is one of my skills.

The woman asks me if I’m going to get shit and I tell her yes but that it’s not her fault. Shit was in the pipeline long before she arrived. She shakes my hand, tells me it’s been fun and exits. My date glares at me for a few seconds before telling me, once again, what a terrible person I am. Not wanting to put up with that and having the mobility of legs I turn to leave.

“That may be true but at least I’m not a corpse fucker.” I exit under those words. A few women in line turn. Some laugh remembering my earlier performance. “I’ll be in the lobby.”

I’m leaning on a wall in the lobby as people munch cheese and talk about things I, being such a classless oaf, would not understand. Suddenly the manager looks over between bites of brie and sees me. She starts to glower. Doesn’t she know glowering only increases my superpowers?

I smile at her and say,

“Well? You never answered my question.”

She gets all red faced and bumbles her way into her office. My date arrives in the middle of this, makes a ‘you’re an idiot’ face and hustles out. I slowly walk out, grabbing a piece of cheese on the way, when I have a moment of melancholy. I mean, now I’m never going to know if this movie was autobiographical.

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“You don’t drink coffee?”

I was asked. “No.” I responded.

“Then how do you stay up?”

“By not going to sleep.”

Why do I have to have these conversations?

Cats Meow

I was at a place where people had unfettered rights to speak. I agree, I should have known better. But I have a good excuse. I was forced to go. I can’t say it was all bad. 99.999% of the people were pleasant. Enough. But isn’t there always one? One person who’ll spoil our non-asshole having fun?

It could be the pontificator. The person who considers himself an expert on one subject so tries to inject himself into you like Bill Cosby. Totally unexpected and unwanted. It never matters if this person is right or not. They’ve spent their valuable time learning something so they feel it is your duty to be there as they unload. Again, much like Bill Cosby.

It could be the passive aggressive whisperer. This person may actually have nothing to say but that won’t stop them. And, because they know, as a human, it’s a natural response to try and listen when others speak, you’ll strain to hear their barely audible murmuring so they’ll have your complete attention.

But usually it’s the loud person. No matter what this person says they feel it’s so important it must be bellowed as loudly as an air raid siren. I’ve had the misfortune of being around many of these people and, in my experience, what they are screaming is never important.

But boy do they say it! And they never stop. I think that’s what’s so amazing. It’s the verbal equivalent of a runaway freight train. Oh sure, it’s going to stop eventually, but you’re never sure where or when. And, when it does, the aftermath is devastating. Because you know, once they catch their breath, they’ll have another train with a newly packed load ready to go.

I’m standing there having what could be described (by others) as a pleasant conversation. A person is telling me about something they did, had done to them, was thinking of doing or had to postpone from doing. As I said, others may have found it pleasant but, to me, it was a series of minor inconveniences that was partially to mostly their fault that they wanted me to agree it was not anywhere near their fault. Some people like that kind of conversation. I muddle through. I give them my divided attention and they seem fulfilled when they inevitably see someone who hasn’t heard this tale and leaves.

I like to be there for these people for as long as they want to speak. Not because of any true desire to hear how Janine at work is a total bitch who has the boss wrapped around her press on nail fingers so never has to do any work. But because I know the alternative is worse.

Case in point, after the person I was just talking about left she was replace by a guy who has a revolutionary, life altering diet he wanted to tell me about. Which made me want to tell him about my life altering diet which is not to eat everything in the fucking building. But his was much more, as he said, revolutionary so had to tell me all about it. For forty-five minutes. I shit you not. Do you want to know what his diet was?

No?

Please, let me. I need to get it out of my head some way. Thank you. And I promise I’ll sum the forty-five minutes I’ll never get back in three to four seconds (depending on how slow a reader you are). And here it goes:

His diet was totally designed around your blood type.

I wish I was joking.

But even a tale that ludicrous wasn’t holding my attention. He was being overpowered by a hurricane called The Bloviator. She was holding fort directly to three people who were shoulders against the wall trapped. The force of her windy speech was keeping them from unpinning themselves. Her physicality was making it impossible for anyone to have their legs go limp and snake out of there. They were trapped but everyone else in the building was, to a lesser extent, engulfed by this beast.

Another person, who had his eyes locked onto this beast, walked up to us and said,

“Man, is she loud or what?” The person who was talking to me knew this woman and said,

“She’s always like that. She thinks she’s the cats meow.” I watched as those who could covered their ears and move to a, hopefully, safer distance. Feeling pity for those trapped in her verbal vortex I responded,

“Isn’t it amazing that those who feel they’re the cats meow are actually what comes out of a cats ass?”