Diary of a movie man

The following diary entries were discovered near the body of Theodore Ruxpin, who died outside a local movie theater in a puddle of congealed popcorn butter. Found stuffed into his trousers, next to a half-eaten box of Milk Duds and a pocket guide to South American tree frogs, the scribblings contained therein detail a mind unraveling in the face of rising ticket prices and uninspired Hollywood drivel. The last page of his diary has been submitted for your consideration. Let this serve as a cautionary tale. Our thoughts, and stern warnings, go out to the many millions who may be tempted to follow in the footsteps of his foolhardy rebellion. Also, he had a mullet. Never grow a mullet.
 
9:30 a.m. Ahh, Saturdays. Gotta love ‘em. A little less, maybe, now that Garfield and Friends is off the air. But they’re still great. My jammies itch. Time to fix my customary breakfast of Lucky Charms and vodka.

10 a.m. So I’m trying to plan my day, and I’m having a hard time deciding whether I want to go see a movie, or continue working on my life-sized papier-mâché sculpture of Lyndon Johnson’s dog. The ears are almost done. Still, it’s been forever since I’ve been out to a cinema. The last time was when I saw “Avatar,” and the 3D effects made me so sick I spent half the movie in the bathroom, reintroducing myself to that ill-advised box of Skittles. Talk about tasting the rainbow.

10:15 a.m. Checking out the listings now. The only movie I recognize is “A Good Day to Die Hard.” What is that, like, the 12th Die Hard movie now? I remember the last one had that guy in it from the Apple commercials. It was putrid. A giant, fetid, smelly pile of horse dung. But hey, that was probably just a fluke, right? I mean, the first couple were decent, and Hollywood wouldn’t let a decent series deteriorate just to crank out drivel and cash in on the brand. Right?

10:20 a.m. Okay. “Die Hard” it is. Now I have to figure out who to go with. I can’t ask Bruno ‘cause he’s on a peace mission to Africa, building ergonomic spears for tribespeople with carpal tunnel syndrome. Hubert is still peeved at me for setting his girlfriend’s hair on fire and then putting it out with pickle juice. Gwen still has that restraining order against me. I’ll ask Blair. Blair’s a cool guy. Kinda has a weak constitution and loud noises make him panic, but I don’t think that’ll be an issue.

10:26 a.m. Blair’s in. We’re gonna have burgers and a beer or two at the restaurant adjacent to the cinema, then head over to theater 12 for the 7:30 showing. Already bought the tickets on the web site. Pretty convenient, how you can do that now. I’m not great at the online thing, though. I had eBay open in a separate window, and I think I accidentally bought a piece of toast with the image of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar burned into it. Stupid Internet.

12:15 p.m. Lunch. Chicken fingers and Yoohoo. This does not bode well.

7:15 p.m. Okay, that beer or two? Yeah, I forgot what a drinker Blair is. Had to ditch him in the lobby after he took his shirt off and started singing Elton John’s “Rocket Man.”

7:20 p.m. Watching the previews, and I gotta say, some of the trends nowadays are a little disturbing. I’ve been keeping track, and here are the previews so far: Vampire flick, vampire flick, zombie flick, vampires, vampires, animated film about stock-car-racing giraffes, zombies, zombies, and a Sally Field movie about 19th-century Canadian butter churners. Is this all the studios can offer us? Twenty, thirty years ago, Hollywood was still cranking out original stories. Dialogue was interesting. We weren’t bombarded by soulless computer effects, and following a good movie was like following a good book. Now everything’s adapted from crummy teen novels, and each movie is the echo of something else, just another in a long assembly line of crap based on focus groups and demographic targeting. Oh well. Watching the fifth movie in a series that was over by 1994 should put me in a better mood.

8:30 p.m. What. The. Hell.

9 p.m. Okay, now I’m losing my temper. Seriously. The ticket, plus concessions, cost me about 87 bucks, and what do I get in return? Two hours in a dark room with Bruce Willis, who seems almost as bored with the movie as I am. Now I remember why I don’t come out anymore. My chest feels tight. That can’t be good.

9:20 p.m. I’m taking someone hostage and demanding my money back.

9:30 p.m. Man, my chest really does feel tight. Ditching the hostage idea, but suddenly, standing outside the theater and shouting obscenities at the marquee seems like a really good idea.

I just hope this pain isn’t anything serious. I kinda want to see that giraffe movie.