Other Stuff

Holiday Dogs

Chili-cheese dogs. The cheese sauce—even the words “cheese sauce” sound petro-chemical—was multi-coloured. Like it had been sitting in the steam pumper for days instead of hours. The buns were half soggy and half crunchy—like the victim of a not-entirely successful thaw, where the bag was unsealed in the deep freeze and then aged in the open air. The chili was from a can, and not recently. There was no small gratitude that the condiments were in those ubiquitous little plastic thingies—sealed off from the hot dog rotisserie and the surrounding bacteria.

And that was Thanksgiving dinner that year.

Nothing else was open. Nothing that would provide take-out, anyway. And we had a show to run: TOY STORY. The theater was packed, and there was no real food in the place for us. All plans of imported Thanksgiving treats and meats vanished one relative at a time—each calling with a creative reason for why they couldn’t get out of the house to bring us goodies. It would have been easier to hear, “Listen, I had way too much to drink and I’ve already knocked over the trash can. And that was just walking from the dining room to the bathroom. How I got onto the driveway is the real question. Who are you again?” So we were left with 7-11 and what passed for chili-cheese dogs.

I had an experience at this particular 7-11 that made it hard to think about this particular 7-11 and food in the same sentence—even maybe in the same paragraph. Perhaps even in the same state. The good news: it was not the 7-11 that freaked me out. Relax, I'm not going to get too graphic, but it had to do with a trapper, what was in the bed of his pickup, his unbridled lust to show it off, and then watching him down a chili cheese dog without washing his hands. Too graphic? You believed me? Are you new here?

So, with this not-too-distant memory, I sent one of my minions to the only open convenience store close enough to run to before the next show. Like I said, the restaurants were slammed or closed. The relatives lived too far away to get to and from before the next flood of over-sugared preadolescents poured out, screaming “To infinity, and beyond!”

Exhibitors learn to love a movie even if they hate the way it affects the kids coming to see it. Standing alone, THE INCREDIBLES was a good film. But the rug rats that came screaming from the auditorium powered by sucrose-exacerbated over-stimulation made many movie-theater people want to burn the print in the street—just for that moment of pyrrhic glee. It might insult a filmmaker if you say, “Your film was pure artistic genius but I hope never to have to show it to a theater full of screaming kids again.” So, it was important to me that the worker going to get our vittles return before the next tide of holiday-deranged hordes laid siege upon our box office. This was not the time to be shorthanded.

So, for my fellow diners it was chili-cheese dogs for Thanksgiving dinner that night.

This kind of stuff is a memory best left to the distant past. Today, I would close the theater and drive to see my family in Sacramento before I’d eat another 7-11 chili-cheese dog for any holiday. Any time, actually.

Here’s how much I enjoyed that chili-cheese dog. “Eat this 7-11 chili-cheese dog or we’ll duct tape you to a chair in the auditorium, give 300 eight year-olds sucrose and cappuccino IVs, then tell them you’re the reason the movie stopped halfway through.” I would laugh. Heartily. Then tell them to set loose 100 puppies in the same auditorium, as well. I'll endure that before I eat another 7-11 chili-cheese dog.

I still get stuck working shows on the holidays, but there is food involved. Real food. From home.

When the Avalon Cinema was the only lit building on Jackson on Thanksgiving, people would bring me stuff. Getting fed was never a problem. However, as I had to cut back on my sugar intake, I was tortured by the holiday goodies that crossed my counter. When I put them aside to share with the less insulin-challenged, a bit of powdered sugar inevitably would get on my fingers. When I licked them off it was like getting a taste of an addictive drug. Suddenly Eric Clapton’s Cocaine is rattling in my head and it becomes necessary to put the goodies out of sight. This usually led to a worker asking, “Why are the cookies and fudge in the freezer, under the bag of ice?” But I never declined the sweets, since there is magic in receiving a gift made in someone’s personal kitchen. The fact that I wouldn’t eat the treat was beside the point. The point was in the giving—a way of giving that has become rare in our current culture. It made being at work okay. As okay as it could be.

Tonight, on this Thanksgiving, I will be going in to run movies. Business is not at all like it was in the days of yore, when the majority of those coming in were the football widows and those escaping dysfunctional family dynamics. I pretty much know who will be in tonight. They may want to talk a bit or just get in and out with as little human contact as possible. Some will be a little lit. Some will be a little angry. Some will just want to spend a quiet night at the movies. It will be a lot slower than it used to be. I’d like to think it’s because families have become more functional. I'm working on this being the last holiday I'm separating myself from other people with a counter instead of a dinner table. We’ll see how that goes.

No matter where I am, there will never be another 7-11 chili-cheese dog in my life.

The Reign of Rain

It’s hovering in the horizon. The busy season at the Darkside is looming like a welcome rain after a drought. The wetting of the weather makes going outside less of a joy, which makes it more appealing to spend a couple of hours inside a movie theater. The movie companies are putting out their best product now as they do each year end. They want their films fresh in the minds of the Academy Awards judges. That way the new movies will be jumping up and down in front of those who decide which names get drawn from the envelope on national TV. Then the post-Academy Awards feeding frenzy unspools like celluloid entrails to be fed upon by exhibitors and distributors. Well into the spring we have good stuff to put on our screens (which means butts in our seats) since I, too, feast upon the scraps left by the huge chains, who need to feed their multiple screens and predatory marketing.

The Darkside will have been open five years this coming April Fools Day. When I started building this beast, the economy was becoming brittle but hadn’t quite broken yet. Theaters that have endured for decades are being backed up to the precipice with the ledge starting to crumble beneath them. Other theaters are falling off that cliff when hit with natural disaster, divorce, disease, debt, or despair. Many of them I know very well—their owners, managers, employees, and I exchange regular emails that break up the monotony of daily business banalities—the behind-the-curtain reality of this business. We share our fears and encouraging words. It helps. Before this wonderful thing called the Internets, we all existed as distant islands on a sea of surging celluloid. As interconnectedness turned us into a force to be reckoned with, we discovered that most of us were of the same ilk: whether leftwing or rightwing on the political slide rule, we seem to share a love of what we do. Many of us really do not like each other at all. But, if one of us burns up a sound head, there would be no deliberation before we drop our backup projector in their trunk. We seem to have more of a duty to the communities we serve rather than to our particular personal prejudices. Sometimes our job is more important than others.

I have a friend who works in advertising, and about eight years ago she found herself in a bit of a spot. The photographer she’d been using had bailed at the last minute and she needed film shot, right damn now, so she asked if I could jump in. I grabbed my old Canon and a couple of prime lenses and hopped into her waiting car. In no time we were on a bluff overlooking the valley. Being paid by the roll, I burned film like crazy. We had to move several times because the contrails from the passing jets were crisscrossing over our intended subject. We commented that it would be just grand if we could keep all of the planes out of the sky for a couple of hours.

The next day for the first time in aviation history, not a plane was in the sky, and we gathered around TVs and computer monitors to watch as the twin towers fall—felled by the kind of aircraft that leaves contrails in all of the world’s skies. And then the Pentagon got hit. More fear. More guilt. Do we have friends, family in New York? Do you? Rage. Presidential impotence unveiled because we got caught with our pants around our ankles. The theater owners’ newsgroups sang with activity. Across the country, the question of whether we should even open our doors was sent digitally among a web of theater people. It wasn’t a matter of whether some idiot might bring some destructive device into an auditorium full of people—that wasn’t even on our radar yet—it was about the nation. Are we disrespecting those who have fallen? Is there a protocol, like holding your hand over your heart during the Pledge of Allegiance, that states we should be closed? The newsgroups provided no guidance.

My gut said that no group of terrorists was going to dictate whether I open or not. So I opened—and the people came. The intrepid patrons and I spoke in monosyllabic words, offered robotically since we were left with only autopilot. Our minds were sitting with ash and the pain of those on the other coast. The movie theater was a place to be where the media wasn’t blasting people with fear.

The movies started a few minutes late, which raised no eyebrows to regulars at the (now-extinct) Avalon. If the movie hadn’t started at all, I doubt anyone would have said a word. But it did start and it was a French comedy. Perfect. I hadn’t watched the film prior to showing it, but I started to panic when I saw the actor sitting by his kitchen window making toast, with his radio blurting news about a ferry capsizing and killing 137 people, a war where whole villages were killed, and an epidemic in another part of the world. This was not at all what I’d hoped to put in front of my raw audience. Just as I was about to kill the picture (it was subtitled so killing the sound would have been useless) his toast was up. Way up. It sprang out of the toaster and right out the window. The audience went nuts. The laughter rang out beyond the intensity of the comic moment. Something else was happening. People were letting go of their pain—just for a second—with that powerful medicine: laughter. Safe in a dark room, laughing with others, it was okay. For just a moment, it was okay.

Almost every theater reported the same thing, the same exaggerated reaction from the audiences they served. No matter what was happening on the screen.

Six years and a handful of months after that day, I was at Ground Zero. I was moved, by my emotions and by memories of when this event was hours old instead of years. It welled up inside of me and I had to control my rage at those who were posing and taking pictures in front of this deep hole in the heart of the city—a hole filled with sorrow and blood. I knew that greater tragedies all over the world had taken place on the day I was standing there, but I didn’t care. This day, six-plus years from the fire and rain of ashes, I clung to the chain link fence, trying to ignore the other tourists.

I can’t imagine the horror of visiting ground zero in Japan, but I realize that they have forgiven us. I hope that one day we can forgive those who did this to us, so we can finally have a time of peace.

This is all so big. When things are too big to get one’s mind around, it is good to sit in a dark room with a flickering light and a good story. And so begins the busy season where a theater will bring solitude and refuge from the soul-rending menace that is the holiday season. Drawing a comparison between the holidays and 9/11 is hyperbolic at best—downright hubris at worst. The point being: no matter the degree of stress or loss, our job is to be a place to silently commune with others, sharing the experience on the big screen. A time out, if you will. It can also be a place where you can do something with the family and not have to interact! We get busy.

Those who claim to know say that, like so many other industries, the cinema industry will be sailing rough seas for the next year. We will do as much as we can do to stay open without become unlovable. Yes, we’ll be exposing you to a little more local advertising, but you can expect the same sarcasm. By the way, we sell gift certificates at the snack bar any time we are open for a show. Our popcorn is always fresh, too. We’ll be here for you, a place to hide from relatives or reality, and spend your money—whatever money you might have left.

Transvestites and thier Elections

I stopped using a fax machine quite some time ago. As flamboyant as the production end of the movie business is, the distribution end is almost reactionary. This guy from an east-coast studio left a message on my voice mail asking that box office reports be faxed to their office. I don’t have a fax machine. When the old one broke, I forsook sustainability and tossed it with gusto into the dumpster. Those who have had an embattled relationship with office machinery will understand the satisfaction to be had from hefting something odious over the edge of the dumpster, only to listen to it crash to the bottom of the metal bin. But, this guy in New York wanted me to fax him the box office reports. So, I called him back and told him my fax machine is increasing my carbon footprint in the landfill, and it would be just ducky if he could join the new millennium and get an email address. Unfazed, he insisted email just wouldn’t do. The boss likes paper—hardcopy. You know.

I got this guy’s email from another exhibitor and emailed him the box office reports. Since there was no plume of smoke on the eastern horizon, I'm guessing his building didn’t explode from a deficiency of faxes or the onset of devastatingly nefarious digital communication. 

This is how Tuesday, November 4th started. It ended with a black person being elected to the Presidency of the United States of America.

No matter who was elected president or what else happens in the world, show business lives up to its last name: Business. And that day, all day, there had been calls to be made. Faxes not to be sent. Deals to be settled. Most of the day I was cloistered in my office—which my wife calls my warren—making calls (not faxing) and closing deals. Lainie was tuned into all things political as she had been for some days. Her computer was shouting out electoral vote predictions like an auctioneer at a Texas cattle yard. To prove we have arrived squarely in the digital age, Lainie and I actually Instant Message each other from our respective corners of the house. As she basks in the order and natural light of her loft office, lined by books and framed family photos, she types out short messages identified by her icon: a painting of her daughter’s cat. I type back to her from a room stuffed tightly with all manner of fascinating equipment, shadowed in the darkness that is the bottom-most part of our house. DVDs are spread everywhere, photos are taped across my shelves, and Emily’s 1957 Barbie Chevrolet looks down on me from a shelf as I peck out a return message that will be delivered with my icon: the image of Dr. Zoidberg. 

The traffic on the way to work that evening was much lighter than I expected. After almost collapsing from the exhaustion of getting both customers into the show, I set off to hunt down food while Lainie kept the theater sofa warm, lit by the glow of her laptop screen. Downtown was drab as the last light of the day set everything off with a blue hue. TV screens glowed from inside buildings, with the ubiquitous CNN crawler and mute talking heads scratching for something to say that they hadn’t already said 20 times. Old World Deli was just as customer-free as the theater. As I waited for my food, I pulled up a wall to listen to the circle of acoustic musicians strumming Gaelic standards. There were about a dozen of them facing inward, like wagons circled against the onslaught of media mayhem.

I got back to the theater just in time to listen to John McCain’s This-Wasn’t-The-Change-I-Was-Hoping-For speech. On the laptop screen, it rolled out like a bad stop-motion cartoon. The Internet connection was slow—no doubt from high traffic—but we watched that moment in history play out anyway, in the nearly deserted lobby of the Darkside. McCain was generous with praise for Obama, which invited a generosity of spirit from the people who’d been lashing out at McCain for the whole campaign. Not that he didn’t do a little lashing out himself the last few months.

When the throbbing masses exited the theater, we sped home, getting there just in time to see Obama roll up the sleeve of the world and inject his brand of hope. It did not go unnoticed by the media. I know a lot of people who threatened to move to Canada if McCain won, since it would surely mean that we’d all be living in the streets and combing the dump for food. Heck, even illegal aliens were leaving the U.S. due to the crappy economy. I made the joke that the same number of people were still coming in from the south, but now they were just passing through to Canada. I’m sure there are McCain supporters who now feel like leaving the country. Whatever the case, Election Day ended with a president-elect who adds a different kind of face to the schoolroom portraits of American presidents.

The morning after the election, I wandered out to the driveway to get the paper, Tony Soprano Style. The front page was no surprise: all things election, with a huge photo of our new president-elect waving from the stage. When I dropped the paper on my desk, the computer woke from sleep and spit out emails. One of them was from a buddy of mine in Silverton, with his own special election news:

Can you believe all this???? In Silverton ..... we have a transvestite mayor!
STU RASMUSSEN has been elected Mayor again! When he served before, he was the old Stu. Now, after several years as a full-blown transvestite, most days in high heels, summers in halter tops, he got 55% of the vote! I'm heading down right now to change the Palace Theater marquee to: CONGRATULATIONS MAYOR STU!

Stu has run the nice old single screen Palace Theater in Silverton since before God’s beard went white. The first time I met him it took me a few minutes to get past the image: a guy whose boobs offered more shade than the average elm. And his nails were perfect. After ten minutes his love of cinema and his stately old theater eclipsed my prejudice. We spent about an hour and a half wandering around the old Palace discussing all things cinema. I had heard stories of him dressing like Mary Magdalene to sell tickets to THE PASSION. After meeting him, I had no trouble imagining him doing that. Today, a proud transvestite has been elected Mayor of a small American town that still has one-cent parking meters. There’s some change you can believe in.

It’s the day after the election and I'm still not faxing. As I search frantically for the tab on Pandora that will prevent it from ever playing another Doobie Brothers song again, I think of the significance of this election and the small American flag in the garage. Those who care to comment on the flag usually see it as an extension of my affinity for American motorcycles. Actually, it was given to me by an Armenian friend. Something about the way he presented it to me made me think of my mom with her flag on the day of her naturalization. My Armenian friend gave this flag to me on his way out of the United States. My mom got hers when she decided to stay.