cheap thrills

To celebrate my impending world-wide fame, my man took me out to the breakfast buffet to get our thwok on before going to a movie that is receiving disintegrating reviews, so naturally I was looking forward to the front end of the day more than its middle, but did I ever get that all wrong. On my way to the hot cinnamon rolls I was over taken by a mother trying to quick march her kid to a safe zone. They didn’t make it. There’s a reason why mom doesn’t serve you Fruit Loops in chocolate milk at home. The substances, both magical, are highly reactive. The kid got sick everywhere, and colorfully. I quease easily, but kid sick isn’t all that gross, mainly because they don’t chew their damn food. I say this every time: this is my last dance at the OCB.

Then in the theater lobby we were treated to the sight of a man wheezing, sneezing, and hacking all over the butter and salt station. So yay for dry popcorn! Dean had none, so traumatized was he.

Things picked up as the trailers ran, and we were derisive and rude, especially during the promo for “Nights in Rodanthe”—really? Are they serious about this? Rodanthe? Had any of the film’s makers ever been to Rodanthe? Did they think Rodanthe sounded exotic? I guess “Nights in Salvo” or “Nights in Duck” didn’t cut it, and “Nights in Frisco or Avon” would set expectations too high. Dean made shot-gun loading gestures on behalf of Diane Lane’s character when Richard Gere asked, “But who takes care of you?”

And then the movie, “Burn after Reading”—this thing was fantastic, and not just because my breakfast sucked. I concede it isn’t for everyone—remember when Fargo first came out and some people reacted very badly to the wood-chipper scene? I’m just saying that if jolts upset you and you need to know why things are happening when they do, then you may fall into too deep a concern for message.