Okay, it's hardly the time nor the place to get into a long-winded discussion of the social and racial differences in moviegoing behaviors. You'd think after the Skeleton Key experience, I'd know better than to try to watch a scary movie at Court Street UA multiplex. But it was so very hot, and my little fan was so very weak, and somehow I convinced myself that I was the only one in Brooklyn who had the idea of catching the 2:50 1408.
Well, as you may have gathered, the theatre was chock-a-block with middle schoolers, who spent the whole movie screaming "Oh SHIT!" at random moments, wandering in and out of the theatre and, strangest of all, breaking into spontaneous applaude whenever anything scary happened. I appreciated their enthusiasm, but it did make it hard to get really caught up.
That evening, I met a friend for Italian dinner. She was a bit delayed because of yestrday's power outages. Our waiter looked familiar to me, but I couldn't place him. My friend, Amanda, detailed her love life of late, in the process clearly revealing to me that someone needs a copy of The Rules, stat.
"Erase his number," I said sternly, not because I've read The Rules but because I am a fan of dramatic action. She was appalled. I like to think I'd practice this sort of asceticism if I ever got the chance. Of course, I did stalk The Man Who Shamed Me, but that wasn't because I was interested in him; it was because I was furious.
Anyway, after dinner she wanted a drink so we hied away to a nearby bar which I tend to avoid ever since I saw the bartender , Brian, humiliated himself at karaoke by doing a really embarrassing rendition of "The Letter" and rolling around on the floor a lot. Everyone was disgusted - because his heart clearly wasn't in it.
I walked her to the subway and bought a bag of Swedish fish. The skies opened, and I was forced (because I was wearing that white nightgown thing) to take refuge in the old-timey bar nearby.
"I'm here to take refuge from the storm," I pointedly told the bartender, just so he wouldn't think I was one of those silly girls who's taken in by his line and shows up to be flirted with.
"I figured as much," he said. "I know you don't come in here to see me. Give me some Swedish fish."
I did, and fed the jukebox a dollar: Joy Division, Velvet Underground, The Supremes.
The bartender produced a vintage umbrella, which kept me reasonably modest on the walk home.
The umbrella's really something: it's red striped, with a sort of bakelite handle. Far too nice to keep; I'll drop it by the bar tomorrow, maybe with a bag of Swedish Fish.