T.G.I.F.
“The idea of running out to spend $3.75 and then returning your movie doesn’t seem the way we’re going. In five years we’ll be saying, ‘Remember when we had to actually go out and rent our videos?’"
As Bogart said in, I think, The Big Sleep, or maybe it was The Maltese Falcon, “I don’t mind a reasonable amount of trouble.” And, again, at one time I would have agreed. But when the trouble is one’s own doing and for no good cause, it’s a bit different.
My spine was being wracked sideways, then back, my neck whipping brutally into sudden, unnatural movements that brought sharp pain. The screams of the others were hoarse, incomprehensible gibberish.
Beth at the snack bar asked me if I wanted butter on it and I said sure. Turns out, I think it was butter flavoring, which is really some kind of petroleum product, and I got a headache, which did not put me in the mood for comments like “I hope you didn’t put salt on that. I think we’ve had enough problems in the blood pressure department, don’t you? Is that butter? Well, they’re your arteries.
Vincent Price movies were always the best, I thought, at least at the drive-in. The Abominable Doctor Phibes or Theater of Blood. Billy Jack was good, too, at the drive-in,
“If this were a society of geniuses, it might be a lightly attended. There are societies like Three Sigma, Intertel, the top 1 percent, there are some with so few members they can only meet by e-mail.”
On a Friday or Saturday night, when a gentleman comes through the door and I’ve never seen him, I just want him to be aware of what kind of bar this is. A lot of times guys are sent here as a joke.
It’s almost Friday evening and I’m sitting in the park across from the Coronado Public Library. The book I’m reading is not riveting my attention in the way one always hopes as a reader. I …