I feel like I’ve been neglecting things a bit over here in blog world but between work, birthdays, entertaining guests, and doing my best to murder as many computers as possible, well, let’s just say I’ve had a few balls in the air, so all apologies if I’ve seemed a bit distant recently. I don’t mean to be. You know I love you, baby.
So, since I had such a wonderful three day weekend and am consequently feeling tired and rather incapable of coming up with my own original ideas, today’s post will be yet another act of thievery, which I fear has been so common that I really ought to be locked up. But while I’m still a free woman, here, as prompted from Steve, are my five most memorable movie-going experiences. Rather than organize them chronologically, which would make far too much sense, I’m instead listing them in order of humiliation level (least to most). Try not to judge me too harshly. Or do. Whatever. I’ve got thick skin. (Figuratively speaking, of course; in reality, my skin is like freaking paper. The scratches and bruises on me after this weekend are ridiculous. But I digress.)
Friday Nights at the Drive-In
Back when drive-ins were common and I was young enough to get away with wearing pjs with footies, mom and dad and me and Matt would all crowd into my mom’s enormous, green Grand Prix and head out every Friday night - pajama-clad and large pizza resting on the dashboard – to search for the last remaining working radio transmitter so we could watch whatever relatively kid-friendly thing was showing. I barely remember what we saw (Back to the Future, I think, and some God-awful thing with Kevin Bacon who was cast as a crime-solving bike messenger or something equally absurd), but I do remember feeling oh so excited and cozy and happy. It was so innocently sweet that I get cavities just thinking about it.
Pulp Fiction
While I’d like to claim that I was the one cool enough to suggest seeing Pulp Fiction at the State Theater in Ann Arbor when it was first released and hardly anyone had heard of it yet, I’ll be honest and admit that it was my boyfriend, Billy, who was the hip one. He and I were two of only a handful of people in the theater, and I remember driving home thinking that I had just seen something that had completely blown my sixteen-year-old mind. The conversations about what was in Marsellus Wallaces’s briefcase were some of the deepest that Billy and I ever shared. And no, that’s not saying very much at all.
The English Patient
A different boyfriend took me to see this movie, and I don’t care how terribly lame this makes me sound – it was the single most romantic moment I’ve ever experienced at the movies. We had just started dating so were both firmly in the “enamored with each other” phase, held hands through the entire epic saga, and locked eyes when Ralph Fiennes, while carrying a dying Kristin Scott Thomas through the desert, comments that she’s wearing the thimble he bought her around her neck, and she looks up at him and says, “Of course, you idiot. I always wear it; I've always worn it; I've always loved you...” Sigh! No, it didn’t work out between Seth and me – he wore girl pants and shaved his armpits for Christ’s sake – but at least he gave me that one disgustingly sappy moment, if little else.
Eyes Wide Shut
In retrospect, I should have done a bit more research before I recommended to my mom that she and I go see this together. I don’t care how hip of mom you have or how good of a relationship the two of you share – no one should have to sit through a fifteen-minute orgy scene with her mother. Let’s just say it redefines “uncomfortable.”
Showgirls
I know, I know - but I was seventeen and it was forbidden. Me, Shelly and Matt S. were seniors in high school, and in a rare act of rebellion we blew off some required band function to see what all the fuss was about. Shelly was too young, so Matt and I had to pull out the ninja stealth to sneak her in. The movie was absolutely horrible, Shelly slept through nearly the entire thing, and Matt and I competed to see who could make the most sarcastic running commentary. It was awesome. Afterward, I told my mom that we had gone to see How to Make an American Quilt. When she asked me what it was about, I told her it was Winona Ryder’s epic journey for self-discovery through the fine art of quilt-making. The fact that she believed me, frankly, is astounding.
Looking back on this, I'm realizing that four of my five choices were released in the mid-nineties, and two of the five are practically porn. You'd think this might embarrass me, but not so much.
So, since I had such a wonderful three day weekend and am consequently feeling tired and rather incapable of coming up with my own original ideas, today’s post will be yet another act of thievery, which I fear has been so common that I really ought to be locked up. But while I’m still a free woman, here, as prompted from Steve, are my five most memorable movie-going experiences. Rather than organize them chronologically, which would make far too much sense, I’m instead listing them in order of humiliation level (least to most). Try not to judge me too harshly. Or do. Whatever. I’ve got thick skin. (Figuratively speaking, of course; in reality, my skin is like freaking paper. The scratches and bruises on me after this weekend are ridiculous. But I digress.)
Friday Nights at the Drive-In
Back when drive-ins were common and I was young enough to get away with wearing pjs with footies, mom and dad and me and Matt would all crowd into my mom’s enormous, green Grand Prix and head out every Friday night - pajama-clad and large pizza resting on the dashboard – to search for the last remaining working radio transmitter so we could watch whatever relatively kid-friendly thing was showing. I barely remember what we saw (Back to the Future, I think, and some God-awful thing with Kevin Bacon who was cast as a crime-solving bike messenger or something equally absurd), but I do remember feeling oh so excited and cozy and happy. It was so innocently sweet that I get cavities just thinking about it.
Pulp Fiction
While I’d like to claim that I was the one cool enough to suggest seeing Pulp Fiction at the State Theater in Ann Arbor when it was first released and hardly anyone had heard of it yet, I’ll be honest and admit that it was my boyfriend, Billy, who was the hip one. He and I were two of only a handful of people in the theater, and I remember driving home thinking that I had just seen something that had completely blown my sixteen-year-old mind. The conversations about what was in Marsellus Wallaces’s briefcase were some of the deepest that Billy and I ever shared. And no, that’s not saying very much at all.
The English Patient
A different boyfriend took me to see this movie, and I don’t care how terribly lame this makes me sound – it was the single most romantic moment I’ve ever experienced at the movies. We had just started dating so were both firmly in the “enamored with each other” phase, held hands through the entire epic saga, and locked eyes when Ralph Fiennes, while carrying a dying Kristin Scott Thomas through the desert, comments that she’s wearing the thimble he bought her around her neck, and she looks up at him and says, “Of course, you idiot. I always wear it; I've always worn it; I've always loved you...” Sigh! No, it didn’t work out between Seth and me – he wore girl pants and shaved his armpits for Christ’s sake – but at least he gave me that one disgustingly sappy moment, if little else.
Eyes Wide Shut
In retrospect, I should have done a bit more research before I recommended to my mom that she and I go see this together. I don’t care how hip of mom you have or how good of a relationship the two of you share – no one should have to sit through a fifteen-minute orgy scene with her mother. Let’s just say it redefines “uncomfortable.”
Showgirls
I know, I know - but I was seventeen and it was forbidden. Me, Shelly and Matt S. were seniors in high school, and in a rare act of rebellion we blew off some required band function to see what all the fuss was about. Shelly was too young, so Matt and I had to pull out the ninja stealth to sneak her in. The movie was absolutely horrible, Shelly slept through nearly the entire thing, and Matt and I competed to see who could make the most sarcastic running commentary. It was awesome. Afterward, I told my mom that we had gone to see How to Make an American Quilt. When she asked me what it was about, I told her it was Winona Ryder’s epic journey for self-discovery through the fine art of quilt-making. The fact that she believed me, frankly, is astounding.
Looking back on this, I'm realizing that four of my five choices were released in the mid-nineties, and two of the five are practically porn. You'd think this might embarrass me, but not so much.
Labels: at the drive-in, kyle maclaughlin, lying to my mother, venetian-style orgies
1 Comments:
I saw Showgirls in the theater with some friends too. There was a guy on a date who sat behind us, and as we MST3K'd our own way through that dreck, he got so pissed that we wouldn't shut up that he complained to the theater manager and we got kicked out. Of Showgirls. For talking too much. Over the dialogue.
Fewer American Quilts in my experience, sure, but you get my drift.
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