No, I wasn't at Charlie Trotter's or a Halliburton-run mess hall in Baghdad. Try the freaking movie theatre."I feel like I've just been raped," my movie companion and pal Janel said last night after she paid for her precious 16 oz. bottle of Dasani. The poor kid behind the counter looked like he wanted to sink into the ground. "Um, I'll have one of those, too." I said, adding to Janel that I planned on licking the condensation off of the bottle to try and get my money's worth.
Of course we wouldn't flinch when paying $3.49 for a beer--likely several beers in a bar. But in movie theatre, it's hard not to feel like you're being held captive and taking advantage of by a bunch of jerks somewhere.
More on movies. .
I grew up in a small town called LaSalle. A fact which I know the tens of readers I have are already aware. But back in the day, this place had three theatres in a downtown that was about three blocks long. I remember seeing Risky Business at the Illinois Valley Twin Cinemas with my friend Peggy as 10-year olds and paying like a$1.50 to get in. We actually got notes from our moms to get in because it was "R". This is the same place where I had freaked out at age 4 because my mom took me to see "Grizzly" and the theatre had some guy dressed in a grizzly costume outside. I didn't calm down until the guy took off the costume's head and reassured me that, he wasn't a grizzly bear bent on eating me and my mother.
I'm going to call her tonight and find out why she thought a four-year-old could handle "18-feet of gut-crunching, man-eating terror!"
email me at angieblog@yahoo.com
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