thursday, the thirtieth of august, two thousand one
Reading: Fiona Range. The main character in this book
(er, that would be Fiona) is thirty years old, and yet I am having
an extremely difficult time identifying with her. I mean, besides
the fact that she's a waitress in a coffee shop and her mother disappeared
when she was a baby and her father is the town freak that no one will
go near and she sleeps with every man who crosses her path, it just doesn't
seem like she and I are practically the same age.
Noting: Ricky Martin, Winona Ryder, Jenna Elfman, Corey Feldman and Corey Haim, Tom Green, Emmanuel Lewis, Fred Durst, Eric Nies, Erykah Badu, David Arquette, Annabeth Gish, Shannen Doherty, Peter Billingsley, Ewan McGregor, Dido, Sofia Coppola, Noah Wyle, 2/3rds of TLC, Mark Wahlberg, James Marsters, Stella McCartney, Tiffany, Christina Applegate, and Joey Lauren Adams all have turned or will turn 30 this year.
Wondering: If someone is trying to hack me through Aimster. I don't even know if that's possible (as I haven't started sharing files yet), but I've had to uninstall and reinstall it three times now because it gets stuck, and then someone else's username shows up as being logged in.
I really have to see what I can do about getting back on some kind of
normal sleep schedule. It's 1:18 in the morning, and I went to bed about an
hour ago but couldn't fall asleep. I don't even feel tired.
Maybe I can use the long weekend to try to fix things.
Then again, maybe I can use the long weekend as an excuse to stay up until 4:00 in the morning playing with my Sims.
But, the fact is that I could be doing that right now, and instead, I'm updating. So that should count for something.
Had I won the Powerball last weekend, the first thing I would have done would have been to purchase a movie theater. I would call it the St. Fums Theater, because it would be the theater for the Shut the Fuck Up Moviegoer's Society.
We would guarantee a silent moviegoing experience at the St. Fums. In fact, in order to see a movie there, you would have to leave a check for $50 at the ticket window, and if you said one single word during the movie, or made any kind of extraneous noise, or carried anything on your person that made any kind of extraneous noise, not only would you have to leave the theater immediately, but you wouldn't get your check back.
Nothing -- and I mean nothing -- gets my back up like people who will not shut the fuck up in a movie theater.
Tara is my favorite movie companion because we are very similar moviegoers, in that we are extremely persnickety about the whole process. There is only one theater in town that we will go to, called the Palace, on the Plaza. (This is because all the others are megaplexes in suburbia with horrendous parking situations and lobbies packed with bastard grunge kids all talking to each other on their cellphones.) We have our favorite seats in the Palace, in the second row of the stadium-seating section, with the metal handrails in front of us so we can put our feet up guilt-free, and we always get there early, so we can actually get our favorite seats and so we don't miss one second of the previews. And once the lights go down, we do not ever, ever talk.
It was a showing of The Others last weekend that prompted the formation of the Shut the Fuck Up Moviegoer's Society. It started with a couple behind us, the male half of which began an eager attempt to impress his date with his stunning knowledge about Silent Bob after the preview for Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back. He was going on and on about Silent Bob, and how he's in all of Kevin Smith's movies, and how they must be like best friends because he's got the best job in the world, he just has to show up and never worry about remembering his lines.
Okay. Anyone who could see what I've downloaded from Aimster so far would know that I am about as hip as your average grandmother, and even I know that Kevin Smith and Silent Bob are the same person. But I was too busy stewing about the fact that the previews were over and the movie was starting and still this guy was talking, and not whispering, talking.
Tara breaks our own rule to lean over say in a none-too-quiet voice: "I wish he was Silent Bob."
Then, as we move through the creepy misty house during the minimalist opening credits (another pet peeve of mine. I like opening credits), a freaking baby starts to cry.
A baby, people. Not a toddler, or a child, but a damn baby. Hello, this is why God created 12-year-old girls, so you don't have to take your damn baby to the movie with you, although it is not surprising that you're too cheap to spring for a babysitter because you're also too selfish to take the crying baby outside until it's done crying.
Now. In the first five minutes of the movie, you find out that the kids have some weird problem and they'll die if they're exposed to sunlight, so Nicole Kidman and the servants have to go around pulling the curtains closed all the time. So if you're ten minutes late to the movie, then please, feel free to ask each other, over and over again, in full voice, why they don't open up the damn curtains already, because God forbid it occur to you that something might have happened in the first five minutes of the movie that explained it and if you just shut up and paid attention you could probably figure it out, but you are apparently too busy trying to open the seventeen different cellophane bags of snacks that you smuggled into the theater.
Then the baby cries again. Then the late people start to talk again about getting some curtains like that for their own house. Then someone's goddamn cell phone rings and they freaking answer it.
That's when I stood up and yelled, "Jesus Christ, people, this isn't your damn living room, so will you please shut the fuck up?!"
Okay. I didn't really. But that is when the idea for St. Fums was born. And frankly, I don't think it's necessarily outside the realm of possibility. The Palace instituted a rule that no one under 13, even in the company of a parent, is allowed in an R-rated movie after 6:00 p.m. So why can't there be one showing per week for sworn non-talkers?
All right. I think the fact that I really don't understand why this can't happen and the fact that it is now 2:42 a.m. means that it might be time for me to sleep now. Sweet dreams be yours, dears, if dreams there be.