Took Afterdinner and the oldest boy to the Megagooglecineplex the other night to see "Sideways" (excellent flick, by the way). Shortly after the interminable series of ads that they euphemistically call "The Twenty", and just before the previews ("trailers", if you're cool), Manager Boy sidles in and announces that, because they had a bad print of the flim (nod to Pert), they had replaced it with a brand new one. Unfortunately, the projectionist was still "building it", which I assume means attaching said trailers to the front end, and we'd be delayed about 15 minutes. Not really any big deal. Not for me, Mrs. Eva, and Thing 3, anyway.
You'd thing some of these people in the audience with us had just been raped up the ass without the benefit of appropriate lubrication, though.
"Do we get free popcorn, then?"
"How about free passes?"
And so on.
Manager Dude says he can't throw food at us, but can do passes. Without further explanation, he bolts, glad to be out of the firing line of the pack of assholes with whom I'll be enjoying tonite's fare. I should add that, because of the subject matter of the film, the crowd tended to be older (mid 20s to 50s, I reckon), in a theater in Alpharetta. I mention that because a free movie pass shouldn't be something that makes their day; they can afford the 8 bucks several times over.
After the theater quiets again, dude behind me starts in with his wife and the couple they're with:
"They waited until five minutes before the movie to tell us this?"
"I'll go out there to get our free tickets. I don't think they're going to bring them here."
And so on. Dude is maybe 45 or 50 years old. I don't like him.
I'm left with several choices:
I could just sit there, enjoy myself, and continue conversing with my lovely wife and son. Why ruin a perfectly nice evening?
I could stand up, face the crowd and rage: "Do you hear yourselves? Is 15 fucking minutes that big of an inconvenience to you? Are you going home to wonder why your kids aren't willing to wait a damn minute for you to get them what they want? Do you not understand why you're raising a generation of brats?"
And so on.
I did neither. The high road was too much of a stretch for me, and the diatribe would have apparently required too much courage, liquor, or both. Instead I opted for sarcasm: "How dare they? I can't believe that I have to sit here with my family for 15 more minutes", I hear myself bellow. "Somebody must owe me money! I demand satisfaction!"
Unfortunately, number one son drank it up and joined in, so I had to quiet him for behaving exactly like his old man. The apple, obviously, didn't fall far from the tree, and I taught him, right then and there, that it was appropriate to be a sarcastic asshole to strangers in a theater. I became exactly what I loathed. In two minutes time, I rode the train from righteous indignation to abject humiliation.
Goddammit. Why does being the perfect parent have to be so hard?
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13 comments:
I´m a perfect parent.
I don't reckon I can say much. I probably would have been one of the complainers. On one of my "better" days, I would have been trying to lead an insurrection of the establishment.
Had that been the case, or had I been the one sarcastically taunting said complainers, Thing Solo would have been telling me, in so many words, to STFU. Of that much I am certain.
Thid is great. You should make it a column and send it somewhere. Like Newsweek's My Turn.
It's worth mentioning that a different manager type came through a few minutes later with one of the cine-lackeys and gave passes to each person in the theater. We smiled and politely declined them. Baby steps, I say.
"I wonder who will eventually pay for those free passes?" I thought to myself. So again, I passed up the shot at the high road. At least Thing 3 didn't hear me think it.
Study and learn from Peaceboy. He will set you free.
Anonymous? Ian? ??
I find myself waffling between those three stances (mature, compromising, and selfish) while driving. From: so what he cut me off; it's just traffic, not important in the grand scheme of things--to: that stupid mfing mfer, why can't he drive over thirty miles per hour or get the eff out of my way?!(then racing around him with obvious acceleration).
At a minimum we have the ability to recognize the immaturity of certain behaviors. (Recognition is the first step.) The great thing for me: no impressionable Things to consider before I choose the path of flagrant, foot-stomping, cry-baby complaining.
Well, won't you all be glad when you have reached your post maturity like Pert and me and recall what wonderful parents you were. Especially when you observe how wonderful all your children have turned out. And by then we can/will take credic for the grandchildren too. Except for KoF's dogs. No attribultion desired.
the Megagooglecineplextsk tsk tsk
You aren't passing that kind of cynicism to the next generation, are you? ;-)
Okay. Sometimes, instead of riding merrily up and down and through the streets and bike paths to and from work, or the library, or to see a movie myself, I sometimes curse the drivers that seem to be getting more aggressive with each passing US Security Act.
One particular day, I was fanticising (not the "with love in my heart" kind, mind you) about sticking huge "Für den Krieg" (for the war) stickers on everyone´s windshields, or at least what it would be like to wake up one morning, that having been done.
Anyway, suddenly a taxi driver opened his door, not having seem me, and I slammed pretty damn hard into it. Fortunately, neither of us was injured, but it really jarred me out of my anger; what normally would´ve had the opposite effect. As I looked back (in anger) to see just who would be so stupid (a taxi driver in this town should know better, you see), he looked so guilty and apologetic (pathetic) that I gave him an it´s-okay-no-harm-done-look, and just kept riding. Unfortunately, later that night my front wheel came off while I was riding.
Sometimes, we don´t realize the damage until after the fact, and sometimes the sins of the fathers visit the likes of Vinnie DelPino.
Just reread blog. Oldest? boy.
Too Cosby-esque to just say "the boy". And a little gay. And the oldest can be T1, depending on how you look at it.
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