Rule #1: Going to the Movies Etiquette Rule #1

Rule: don't talk during the movie.
Exception: the movie is The Rocky Horror Picture Show, The Room, or any movie more than 20 years old and starring Bruce Campbell.

People, a movie costs damn near $13 now. Soon it'll be $15, and IMAX is already $18. If you decide you want to splurge a little and get some over-salted popcorn and an enormous seltzer, you're looking at startup costs of $20/person. I can see an Off-Broadway theater show for that - WITH LIVE HUMAN BEING ACTORS WHO ARE GETTING PAID BY PERFORMANCE (and most make more than I do per week, and they only work a couple hours a day).

My most recent experience was at the future classic The Wolfman, a movie that was graciously bad enough to almost allow it into the exception category. I could have, however, done without watching 2 rednecks wander back and forth in front of me at the climax of the movie (1. How did rednecks find their way into NYC? But of course they'd choose to go the movies while here...). The gentleman of the couple flicking his lighter on because "can't see shit in this place," and "where the fuck are we," are statements that enhanced my experience like a turd on my shoe. This couple wandered from one end of the row to the other, lighter flickin', shit talkin' the whole way, only to wander back and sit where they'd originally been seated. Yes this occurred in the middle of the film. They seemed so lost, like wildebeests suddenly finding themselves at Machu Picchu.


Suddenly I didn't mind so much the fellow down the row exclaiming (like this movie was an interactive experience (see the exception)) every couple of minutes "Aw DAMN!" and "he crazy!" or "Fuck that shit man, FUCK that."


Indeed. Wolf men are spooky.

An Introduction: Didn't You Get the Memo?

Did you get the memo? You didn’t? Well now you have no excuse. There are thousands, arguably millions, of people wandering the streets of this city with absolutely no concern for decency, courtesy, and efficiency. There’s a saying about the old lady we call New York (although compared to most international cities, she’s actually a young bitch): “She’s either making love to you or fucking you.” When she’s making love to you as you bite into Grimaldi’s pizza (after hoofing the Brooklyn Bridge with your gaggle of out-of-towners and waiting in line for an hour; “do you always do this much walking here?”), everything’s great. When she’s fucking you, it’s for one of three reasons.

1) The esteemed MTA (enough said).

2) People who didn’t get the memo (continue reading).

3) Random happenstance (these can be good as well: “what parade is this?”).

Unfortunately, I can’t change #1 any more than I can convince Palin to drive a Prius. Likewise, #3 is instigated by the great overseer who watches from above and throws slippery sidewalks, infrastructure collapses and other slapdash inanities at the inhabitants of New York City. So I’ll focus on #2. The people who didn’t get the memo.

What makes me an expert? Nothing. I’m not even close to being a native. But if you think I’m wrong, I’m open to your corrective arguments if they’re logical and well constructed. That’s what comments are for. The forum is open, and so is my mind. I’m like a blossoming sunflower, my face open and welcoming either your raining hatred or your loving sunlight. They both help me to grow.