Last Friday I went to see Mission: Impossible 3 which introduced me to my new Eurasian crush, and latest member of the Future Ex-Wives Club, Maggie Q. Rawr. When I go to the theater I generally subscribe to the fat man seating arrangement (which is an empty seat on either side of me unless it is a date) as not only am I a bit portly but I have fairly broad shoulders and cannot sit straight in a normal movie theater seat without my shoulders invading the territory on either side of me. (What can I say, I believe in Manifest Destiny like any good American.) Therefore it bothers me when people choose to sit next to me when there are plenty of empty seats in the theater and since there were plenty of empty seats in the theater, the guys who sat right next to me and I sort of got off on the wrong foot. Then these guys talked throughout the trailers. While a lot of people do this, it bugs me. I consider the trailers an integral part of the movie-going experience but I understand I am one of the few that feel this way and so I will let the talking through the trailers slide. Then these fuck nuts (it’s French) proceed to talk throughout the movie. While I will accept, and make, the occasional aside in a movie, I am generally not tolerant of talking during a movie. I believe I showed great restraint when I leaned over and said, “Come on, be quiet,” to FN1, who was sitting on my right. Things got quite for about five minutes and then he leaned over to me and said something like, “You could be more polite.” I COULD BE MORE POLITE?!?!?!? Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME?! Here this jackass is talking through the entire film and he has the balls to tell me to be more polite? Fortunately for him there was no payphone close at hand and that there was a family with kids sitting behind us. I really wanted to go off on this guy. I had an F-bomb on deck when I took a couple of deep breaths and sat back in my chair.
I spent the rest of the movie way pissed off (they resumed talking) and, here is where I find I am a bad person, thinking that he needed to pack his foreign ass up and go back to whatever –stan he was from. I don’t know why my mind went there, and it kind of bothers me that I went racial.
Another example from this past weekend. I was at the world’s blandest Mexican restaurant enjoying a post-graduation celebratory meal with my friend Meaghan and her family. After the meal we were discussing my first visit to the restaurant at which we heard the same song five or six times. It was a Tejano song and my dislike for Tejano music has been well documented. This was a very, very special kind of Hell. In order to explain how traumatic I found the experience the following scene played out at the table:
Me: It took years off my life.
A beat as those around the table as people absorb what I just said. Nikki shoots me a look that says, “Uh-huh.” (I get this look from Nikki fairly often because, lets face it, reality and I have a tenuous relationship.)
Me: That’s what Tejano music does to white people.
See! There I go being racial again. Oh well. I am not a good person, but then most of you kids knew that already.
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