First, an admission: I'm not the sort of person who gets super-excited about opening days for movies. When I was younger, sure, but either I developed patience or I accepted my inner misanthrope and couldn't handle the crowds and waiting in long lines. That's not suggesting I don't experience some sense of anticipation when a movie is coming out that I am interested in seeing, but I don't need to go to see it the minute it starts, or even see it opening weekend; I figure it's still the same movie the next weekend.
Doug, you're not really a movie fan, some of you are thinking.
Yep. I enjoy some movies—many movies, certainly—but I am not a devotee of the medium.
I have noticed, however, that there may be something to the movie-going experience that can affect one's enjoyment of the film itself. As annoying as the crowds are, a comedy seems funnier when a room full of people are laughing than when one is in a mostly empty room and feeling a bit self-conscious about laughing too loud; an action movie seems more exciting when the crowd cheers the hero triumphant over the bad guy.
That is undoubtedly why people stand in line for hours to see the midnight shows. It's not merely that they are super-excited to see the movie (which may or may not live up to the hype); the experience is enhanced by being surrounded by like-minded individuals. The people going to the Saturday evening showing may just be killing time because they couldn't think of anything else to do. (I know in my early 20s the group I hung with tended to go to movies as a default activity, whether we were really that interested in the movie or not.) Those people are the ones who are more likely to annoyingly talk during the film, clearly viewing the event primarily as a social outing rather than as collective entertainment. Which is all good and well for them, but makes for a less than ideal viewing experience if, oh, one came to actually watch the movie.
Case in point: My girlfriend and I saw The Departed well after its release, in a matinée at an upscale shopping mall theater (the only place nearby it was still playing). There were maybe 20 people in the place. And halfway through a quartet of silver-haired shoppers came in, sat down near where most of us were congregated, and proceeded to chat and laugh and pay no attention to the film. They rustled their shopping bags, broke out food, and utterly ignored shushing from pretty much everyone in the theater. And because they weren't teenagers, no one bothered to report them to ushers. We all just had to try to ignore them and enjoy the last half of the film, but I must conclude that my appreciation of the movie was adversely affected in a way that would not have happened if the decrepit foursome could have either shut the hell up or had the consideration to die.
They did further prove how sweet being old is going to be because one has carte blanche to not give a crap about anyone else, but as I'm not old enough to get away with that yet, it did nothing more than offer a glimpse into my delightfully cantankerous future. In the immediate, all they did was forever associate in my mind the film that would eventually win the Best Picture Oscar with their abjectly inconsiderate behavior.
In light of that any numerous others incidents in theaters, I concluded the only recourse seems to involve going to an overpriced theater, where the high ticket prices (although they're not that much higher than the other theaters these days) ward off the casual viewers—especially those with children. That, or stay up late and wait in the ridiculous lines for the midnight showings.
It may not be their fault that most of humanity sucks, but it can be annoying to have to go to such lengths to avoid them.
I told you that as a prelude to this: Sunday morning my girlfriend and I caught a 10:30 (yes, 10:30 am) showing of The Simpsons Movie. We were next to the Arclight anyway, so that's where we saw it. (It was important to help ensure it kicked Chuck & Larry out of the #1 box office slot.) Sure, the tickets were $14 (each), but there was no waiting in any lines. Not only does the theater have reserved seating, but the theater was not even remotely close to full. There were parents with younger children, but they were actually watching the movie.
(Despite the PG-13 rating, I'd say if you let your kids watch the show, there's nothing about the movie that should be that shocking to them.)
My assessment: I enjoyed the movie. Having been a Simpsons fan since 1989, I had little doubt I'd enjoy it. It was funny and well-done. If you like the show, you'll like the movie.
Ultimately, I left satisfied, glad I saw it, but it didn't make me think it was as clever as, say, when I first saw South Park: Bigger, Longer, & Uncut, but that's not what I expected; it was the same heart-warming satirical content I'd come to love over the past 18 years, on a wider screen. And I like that.
However, the non-even-half-full theater was not exactly filled with laughter at the jokes. I cannot help but wonder if I would have thought it even funnier had I been to a late-night showing in a theater filled with rabid fanatics.
Of course, those people can be scary…
So, it boils down to this: There is no ideal movie-going scenario. Or maybe I'm not enough of a fan to think there is.
Just as I tend to enjoy Simpsons episodes more when I see them in the syndicated reruns than I did when they first aired (the jokes have a certain nostalgia perhaps), I'm sure I'll think The Simpsons Movie even better later. When I see it on TV.
~
Something I don't need to wait to about: The lyrics to "Spider-Pig" makes me smile each time I think of them.
Spider-Pig, Spider-Pig
Does whatever a Spider-Pig does
Can he spin from a web?
No, he can't
He's a pig
There goes the Spider-Pig
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Best. Cake. Ever.
Callously jumping on the hype bandwagon for The Simpsons Movie,
I offer this shot of the cake my girlfriend got for my birthday a few years ago:
I offer this shot of the cake my girlfriend got for my birthday a few years ago:
Monday, July 30, 2007
Oh, it's big
Friday before last my girlfriend had the day off, so I used a bit of my copious vacation time and we traveled down to Costa Mesa to attend the Orange County Fair. Yes, "the OC" has a county fair.
Having been to state fairs in the Midwest, she expected to see gargantuan vegetables. However, as we were in the middle of the nation's most famous suburbs, and because it was early in the year (the over sized plants tend to be an autumnal occurrence), the closest we could find was the "world's largest corn dog."
We didn't find it right away, of course. I had a regular corn dog in the late afternoon while still oblivious to it. Really, after that, there was no reason to get another corn dog. A county fair is a paean to the deep-fried, certainly, but one corn dog should be enough.
However, well into the evening, after having had deep-fried artichoke hearts and cheese fries, and while waiting in line for a funnel cake I spotted one of the stands with the world's largest corn dog. My girlfriend noticed me glance over and said, "We can get one." I replied, "We don't need one."
That was absolutely true. Granted, no one ever "needs" a corn dog (of any size), but even in this context, there was no justifying getting more food; we weren't that hungry after the cheese fries, and the funnel cake was how we would finish the evening—that much was certain. And one funnel cake would be more than sufficient.
Of course we went over and got a "world's largest corn dog"; there's no story without that happening. I'm not going to try to explain what compelled me to do it. I suppose it's just what one does when at a county fair. Perhaps such events tap into some latent tendencies in our being. There must be some reason why there continues to be an Orange County Fair in the 21st century; the area is quite removed from its agricultural origins, so there's little reason why it should still exist in the age of X Games and iPods and YouTube, but obviously it does.
Anyway…
The world's largest corn dog is approximately 18 inches long. Really. The stick extends through the entire thing (otherwise it would collapse), so we had to eat around the sides, rather than being able to bite through. It was tricky to dip in the mustard and ketchup. The corn meal wasn't as tasty as the smaller one I'd had earlier.
But it was a foot-and-a-half's worth of corn dog.
We gave it the ol' college try, but still didn't even between the two of us didn't make it halfway down. We wrapped it up and put it in our bag, under the guise of eating more later.
That was the most ridiculous aspect of the whole incident, of course.
After walking around the carnival portion of the fairgrounds for a while, we came to our senses and accepted that there was no way we'd actually consume any of the leftover portion of the corn dog. Even if it did prove still edible, the reality of the situation remained unchanged: It wasn't that good. It was not inexpensive, as corn dogs go (even at fair prices), but our finances were not strapped to the point where we needed to get our "money's worth" and consume the rest of it to spare a future snack.
Still, as we approached the exit and stopped at a garbage can, we experienced a certain sadness about disposing of it. There was no logical explanation for the sense of… what was it? I'm not sure exactly. At best it was a novelty, purchased more for the photo op than out of hunger. Could it be simply that by identified in the extreme terms it was ("world's largest"), we were manipulated into giving it more importance than any corn dog should receive? Could we be so conditioned to respond to the "-est" suffix that we could not help but feel… protective of whatever it was used to describe?
I grasp how silly that sounds, over a week after the incident. My intellect makes me slightly ashamed when I ruminate about it now. All I can say is I know that was how we felt then.
We did throw it out. We didn't allow the emotion of the moment to overwhelm our reason and put it back in the bag. However, we did pause to document the disposal with a photo (a corn dog funeral of sorts?); we couldn't put it out of our lives unceremoniously.
I know. I know.
The worst part: Even in relating the story now, I find myself feeling pangs of that same sensation. Intellectually I know I shouldn't. It was a frickin' corn dog where all it had going for it was enormous length; it was otherwise unremarkable regarding taste. In fact, it was more troublesome than a normal-sized corn dog to eat.
Maybe that's the key: We didn't just eat (part of) it; we invested emotionally in it. Such is the magic of the world's largest corn dog*: It's not merely a snack—it's an experience.
That must be why there's still county fairs.
* If you buy one, however, I suggest you have a group of at least four to share in it. You'll bond in eating the communal cornmeal-wrapped hot dog, and with any luck you'll finish it and be spared the sense of loss when you have to throw away an uneaten portion. You don't need that much of an experience.
Having been to state fairs in the Midwest, she expected to see gargantuan vegetables. However, as we were in the middle of the nation's most famous suburbs, and because it was early in the year (the over sized plants tend to be an autumnal occurrence), the closest we could find was the "world's largest corn dog."
We didn't find it right away, of course. I had a regular corn dog in the late afternoon while still oblivious to it. Really, after that, there was no reason to get another corn dog. A county fair is a paean to the deep-fried, certainly, but one corn dog should be enough.
However, well into the evening, after having had deep-fried artichoke hearts and cheese fries, and while waiting in line for a funnel cake I spotted one of the stands with the world's largest corn dog. My girlfriend noticed me glance over and said, "We can get one." I replied, "We don't need one."
That was absolutely true. Granted, no one ever "needs" a corn dog (of any size), but even in this context, there was no justifying getting more food; we weren't that hungry after the cheese fries, and the funnel cake was how we would finish the evening—that much was certain. And one funnel cake would be more than sufficient.
Of course we went over and got a "world's largest corn dog"; there's no story without that happening. I'm not going to try to explain what compelled me to do it. I suppose it's just what one does when at a county fair. Perhaps such events tap into some latent tendencies in our being. There must be some reason why there continues to be an Orange County Fair in the 21st century; the area is quite removed from its agricultural origins, so there's little reason why it should still exist in the age of X Games and iPods and YouTube, but obviously it does.
Anyway…
The world's largest corn dog is approximately 18 inches long. Really. The stick extends through the entire thing (otherwise it would collapse), so we had to eat around the sides, rather than being able to bite through. It was tricky to dip in the mustard and ketchup. The corn meal wasn't as tasty as the smaller one I'd had earlier.But it was a foot-and-a-half's worth of corn dog.
We gave it the ol' college try, but still didn't even between the two of us didn't make it halfway down. We wrapped it up and put it in our bag, under the guise of eating more later.That was the most ridiculous aspect of the whole incident, of course.
After walking around the carnival portion of the fairgrounds for a while, we came to our senses and accepted that there was no way we'd actually consume any of the leftover portion of the corn dog. Even if it did prove still edible, the reality of the situation remained unchanged: It wasn't that good. It was not inexpensive, as corn dogs go (even at fair prices), but our finances were not strapped to the point where we needed to get our "money's worth" and consume the rest of it to spare a future snack.
Still, as we approached the exit and stopped at a garbage can, we experienced a certain sadness about disposing of it. There was no logical explanation for the sense of… what was it? I'm not sure exactly. At best it was a novelty, purchased more for the photo op than out of hunger. Could it be simply that by identified in the extreme terms it was ("world's largest"), we were manipulated into giving it more importance than any corn dog should receive? Could we be so conditioned to respond to the "-est" suffix that we could not help but feel… protective of whatever it was used to describe?
I grasp how silly that sounds, over a week after the incident. My intellect makes me slightly ashamed when I ruminate about it now. All I can say is I know that was how we felt then.
We did throw it out. We didn't allow the emotion of the moment to overwhelm our reason and put it back in the bag. However, we did pause to document the disposal with a photo (a corn dog funeral of sorts?); we couldn't put it out of our lives unceremoniously.I know. I know.
The worst part: Even in relating the story now, I find myself feeling pangs of that same sensation. Intellectually I know I shouldn't. It was a frickin' corn dog where all it had going for it was enormous length; it was otherwise unremarkable regarding taste. In fact, it was more troublesome than a normal-sized corn dog to eat.
Maybe that's the key: We didn't just eat (part of) it; we invested emotionally in it. Such is the magic of the world's largest corn dog*: It's not merely a snack—it's an experience.
That must be why there's still county fairs.
* If you buy one, however, I suggest you have a group of at least four to share in it. You'll bond in eating the communal cornmeal-wrapped hot dog, and with any luck you'll finish it and be spared the sense of loss when you have to throw away an uneaten portion. You don't need that much of an experience.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Somebody might wave back
Along the route of the Blue Line tracks, between the Compton and Rosa Parks stations, we pass a building with some vans parked out front. It looks a bit like a church, or an old schoolhouse. The tracks are elevated when we pass, so the view from the train is looking down at the building and the small yard in front of it, and the fenced area next to it.
In the mornings I have looked down and seen a group of adults being supervised in light yard work, or being led while holding hands toward one of the vans. I think the facility is for developmentally challenged people; there's a banner hung on it that says "Arc" (which is an organization focusing on that).
On some mornings (most recently yesterday), I see a young man, probably in his 20s, wearing glasses with the big Coke-bottle lenses, standing in the yard. When the train passes, he turns and jumps up and down and waves his arms wildly, in undeniable excitement. He keeps jumping and waving even though the train is 30 feet above his head, speeding by at 50 miles per hour, and no one else appears to notice him. When I'm in a backwards-facing seat on the train, I can see him keep waving until we're out of sight, never losing enthusiasm for his greeting, undaunted by the lack of response.
I can't remember the last time I had that much unbridled excitement over anything. I have a reasonably good life, but I don't think I'm capable of being that enthused no matter how thrilling something might be.
And society calls me "normal" and calls him "developmentally challenged."
One of these mornings I'll wave back.
In the mornings I have looked down and seen a group of adults being supervised in light yard work, or being led while holding hands toward one of the vans. I think the facility is for developmentally challenged people; there's a banner hung on it that says "Arc" (which is an organization focusing on that).
On some mornings (most recently yesterday), I see a young man, probably in his 20s, wearing glasses with the big Coke-bottle lenses, standing in the yard. When the train passes, he turns and jumps up and down and waves his arms wildly, in undeniable excitement. He keeps jumping and waving even though the train is 30 feet above his head, speeding by at 50 miles per hour, and no one else appears to notice him. When I'm in a backwards-facing seat on the train, I can see him keep waving until we're out of sight, never losing enthusiasm for his greeting, undaunted by the lack of response.
I can't remember the last time I had that much unbridled excitement over anything. I have a reasonably good life, but I don't think I'm capable of being that enthused no matter how thrilling something might be.
And society calls me "normal" and calls him "developmentally challenged."
One of these mornings I'll wave back.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Dare to be stupid
"No intelligent being would consent to be a fool… even though they should be persuaded that the fool… is better satisfied with his lot than they with theirs."
- John Stuart Mill
Um, yeah, whatever. If the fool thinks he's happy, he's happy. I shall envy him that nonetheless.
- me
- John Stuart Mill
Um, yeah, whatever. If the fool thinks he's happy, he's happy. I shall envy him that nonetheless.
- me
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