Fozzie and I went to the movies on Friday — somehow I'd managed to get him interested in Pan's Labyrinth.
We both enjoyed the movie, though he slightly less enthusiastically than I, I think.
In any case, the most dramatic and riveting part of the evening turned out to be not the movie itself, but the fascinating story unfolding in the seats next to us.
We broke our own rule about attending movies at the movie theaters on West 42nd Street. They invariably smell like an untidied lockerroom where the toilets have overflowed and been left untended for three days. And the crowds? Generally as well behaved as a troop of starving baboons with distemper.
I'm not a fan of those theaters.
In any case, Fozz and I decided we'd sit in the upper section, in the first row after a break in the rows. That break contained a couple of seats, dead center, set aside for handicapped patrons and a small section right in front of us was free of seats, creating a space for folks in wheelchairs.
We got there early, following Kirstie Lageman's First Commandment of Movie Viewing: "Get thy butt into the theater at least one half hour prior to the beginning of the movie to assure optimal seating choices."
It just so happened that we sat next to this older couple, who, it seemed coincidentally, were seated directly behind the two seats reserved for the handicapped.
As the clock ticked away, the movie approached, and the theater began to fill up, people would start eyeballing those two handicapped seats. So the older gentleman, a wizened and wrinkly-looking fellow – miffed that Fozz had had the effrontery to not just sit next to him, but also to inquire if he wouldn't like to move his bag from under Fozz's seat – took his coat and draped it over one of the handicapped seats in front of him.
Person after person came up, looked at the two empty handicapped seats (one with a jacked draped over it), and invariably looked at this older couple and would say, "Are these two seats taken?"
To which, invariably, the older lady would snipe, leaning forward in her seat and pointing at the embroidered wheelchair symbol for emphasis, "These seats are reserved for the handicapped." She wasn't particularly polite about it, either.
Finally, a guy walked up, looked over the seats and asked an unexpected question:
"Pardon me, but is this your coat?"
The old lady leaped to the attack: "Those seats are reserved for the handicapped."
The guy was slightly taken aback, but it was clear that the place was filling up and seats were going to be at a premium soon enough.
"Well, okay," says the guy, "but what I asked was, 'Is that your coat?'"
The old guy says, "Yes it is," and the wife repeats, "These seats are reserved for the handicapped."
The guy looks back and forth between them and finally gives up, but before going away, looks at the guy and says, "Okay, but still, you're being inconsiderate, right?"
After the guy walks away, the old man mutters something that I didn't catch.
Fozz nudges me and whispers, "Did you hear that?"
"No."
"He just said as soon as the movie starts, they're going to move into those seats!!!"
It was at that point that this kid walks up, looks at the seats and, without even checking in with the evil duo next to us, plops down in the seat and sets his girlfriend in the other free seat, forcing the old crow to scramble to get his coat off the seat.
While all this occasioned a fair bit of hemming and hawing from the self-righteous seat nazis, all I could think was, "Karma is a boomerang, baby."
We both enjoyed the movie, though he slightly less enthusiastically than I, I think.
In any case, the most dramatic and riveting part of the evening turned out to be not the movie itself, but the fascinating story unfolding in the seats next to us.
We broke our own rule about attending movies at the movie theaters on West 42nd Street. They invariably smell like an untidied lockerroom where the toilets have overflowed and been left untended for three days. And the crowds? Generally as well behaved as a troop of starving baboons with distemper.
I'm not a fan of those theaters.
In any case, Fozz and I decided we'd sit in the upper section, in the first row after a break in the rows. That break contained a couple of seats, dead center, set aside for handicapped patrons and a small section right in front of us was free of seats, creating a space for folks in wheelchairs.
We got there early, following Kirstie Lageman's First Commandment of Movie Viewing: "Get thy butt into the theater at least one half hour prior to the beginning of the movie to assure optimal seating choices."
It just so happened that we sat next to this older couple, who, it seemed coincidentally, were seated directly behind the two seats reserved for the handicapped.As the clock ticked away, the movie approached, and the theater began to fill up, people would start eyeballing those two handicapped seats. So the older gentleman, a wizened and wrinkly-looking fellow – miffed that Fozz had had the effrontery to not just sit next to him, but also to inquire if he wouldn't like to move his bag from under Fozz's seat – took his coat and draped it over one of the handicapped seats in front of him.
Person after person came up, looked at the two empty handicapped seats (one with a jacked draped over it), and invariably looked at this older couple and would say, "Are these two seats taken?"
To which, invariably, the older lady would snipe, leaning forward in her seat and pointing at the embroidered wheelchair symbol for emphasis, "These seats are reserved for the handicapped." She wasn't particularly polite about it, either.
Finally, a guy walked up, looked over the seats and asked an unexpected question:
"Pardon me, but is this your coat?"
The old lady leaped to the attack: "Those seats are reserved for the handicapped."
The guy was slightly taken aback, but it was clear that the place was filling up and seats were going to be at a premium soon enough.
"Well, okay," says the guy, "but what I asked was, 'Is that your coat?'"
The old guy says, "Yes it is," and the wife repeats, "These seats are reserved for the handicapped."
The guy looks back and forth between them and finally gives up, but before going away, looks at the guy and says, "Okay, but still, you're being inconsiderate, right?"
After the guy walks away, the old man mutters something that I didn't catch.
Fozz nudges me and whispers, "Did you hear that?"
"No."
"He just said as soon as the movie starts, they're going to move into those seats!!!"
It was at that point that this kid walks up, looks at the seats and, without even checking in with the evil duo next to us, plops down in the seat and sets his girlfriend in the other free seat, forcing the old crow to scramble to get his coat off the seat.
While all this occasioned a fair bit of hemming and hawing from the self-righteous seat nazis, all I could think was, "Karma is a boomerang, baby."
My roommate, Betty Boop, asked me out of the blue last Thursday, "What are you doing tomorrow night?"
It's no great revelation that every once in a while, I start thinking about giving up the acting business and getting a "real" job. I go through periods where money's tight and I envy the people with "real" lives, and I start thinking about packing it in.
