| A few days ago, my friend Ken took me on a tour of my old high school in the middle of the night. Ken teaches there now, because I wasn't feeling old enough already, and the two of us had the necessary insomnia, boredom, and keys to go on a little walk down memory hall. As we went through the old place, I was astonished at how much a structure can change in six or seven years. I wasn't sure I was in the right building, or city for that matter. They'd basically ripped the insides out of the building and filled it with clean, shiny things, leaving the façade of old brick on the outside to trick passing alumni into thinking that they still needed donations. But let me tell ya, classmates: our tuition was well-invested. These damn kids… their theater is nicer than the one downtown. Our plays were in the f***in' gym. And not even the new gym. The old, abandoned gym. I learned to type on a smoldering Commodore 64, fer Chrissakes. These kids, not even ten years later and they're using the nicest computers Apple could trick them into taking for free. Friggin' Fame-lookin' dance studio… all-new art studio… cage after cage of monkey butlers… outrageous. These youngsters can't be learning humility and deprivation. The place is so nice, it looks like the whole school took the Jesuit vow of poverty. The tour was a more refreshing flavor of the wave of nostalgia that has been washing over me lately. At least my high school, as different as it is now, is still open. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said about another old stomping ground Ken and I had in common, since the Shady Oak just closed its doors at long last. Contrary to popular belief, the Shady Oak was not a retirement home. It was a movie theater (in the loosest sense of the word) where Ken worked throughout the summer of 1993. When he left for college, he recommended me to take his place until he came back, and since the place was run a little like the mafia I was hired on the basis of his recommendation. I worked there throughout my freshman year of college, often spending twice as much time there as I did on campus. It's funny how some of the crappiest jobs and worst experiences inspire the most fond recollection afterwards. That had to be one of the worst jobs I've ever had, but it's also the one I think about the most often. The facilities were dangerous, the customers were snarky, the upper management was utterly heartless… but when the day finally comes that I write my first thick work of "fiction," it will almost certainly be a thinly-veiled account of my time at the Shad. (We called it "the Shad" in a faux, typically ironic attempt to give it a hip nickname, the way Kentucky Fried Chicken became "KFC" around that same time.) It was there I learned that you can work anywhere on earth if you're with the right group of people. We were a lot like a family at the Shad that year. I didn't go in so often because I needed the money, fat though the minimum wage cash was. Almost every night of the week, you would go into work and find one of your coworkers just hanging out in the lobby off the clock. Of course, all we did was hang out in the lobby when we were on the clock, too. That was another nice thing about the job. It would be misleading to call the place a local landmark in the true sense of the term. The Shady Oak was a local landmark which, sad to say, was not even of the Parkmoor's caliber. When the Parkmoor closed, people came out of the local woodwork to protest its shuttering, wearing great big "I Am a Hypocrite" signs around their necks to signify that the restaurant they wanted so desperately to save was one they hadn't set foot in since 1976. The Shad, on the other hand, died as it lived; when it closed, the crowd at its last screening consisted of about six people. Like everything that ever happened there, the closing was poorly advertised, perhaps to keep people from flipping out and launching another tired protest. I didn't even hear about it until after it had happened, when the local news did a story that basically began, "A local legend is closing…. right aboooooout… (looking at watch)… NOW! Too late, film lovers! Ha ha!" Of course, saying that the Shady Oak was popular with 'film lovers' is itself a little misleading. See, the Shad was a one-screen would-be art house, but it was also run by the local crappy theater chain. This meant two things: 1) the fare varied almost schizophrenically from one week to the next between Remains of the Day and Beverly Hills Cop III and 2) the building itself was about as well maintained as the house at the end of The Blair Witch Project. The whole place was a hot buttered stain. The projector was from 1929 and was audible from the back thirty rows of the theater. The arm rests and cup holders were fairly likely to come off in your hands with a little pressure. Cinema buffs had other places to see their movies. In fact, we often used to discourage people from seeing things there. The crowds were often so sparse that when two or three people did come in at the last minute, we'd try to talk them out of buying tickets so we could go home. "Two adults for The Piano, please." "Umm… actually, that started about half an hour ago. You really kinda missed the whole set-up. You might as well go home, to be honest." "That's okay. Two, please." "I'd… I'd love to help you, sir, but our credit card machine… is broken. Very badly." "Really?" "Yeah. Somebody came out of the last screening so despondent that he smashed it with a hammer and ran off." "Really??" "Yeah. We never even got a good look at the guy. He just muttered something about 'worst movie ever' and ran off." "Huh. Well, I guess we'll just have to try tomorrow, then." "I'm sorry, sir. Tomorrow, we're replacing The Piano with House Party 5." The whole job was a TV series waiting to happen. "Cheers" meets "E.R." We had vegan ushers who rapped. We had a film student who used to be a wedding videographer on the side. We had a 16-year-old equestrian champion who dated half the staff. We had a raver who seemed to be on Ecstasy every time I saw him, who would often arrive bloodshot and unwashed and fall asleep on a bench in the lobby for hours at a time. Ken used to sit in the box office and teach the manager how to play guitar. I've never had more fun "working," even now. I remember the night Scrapper had a line of 100 people wrapped around the building, and upon discovering that we'd sold out, he just shut the window and left the box office, never bothering to alert any of the would-be customers to the fact that he was never coming back. They stood out there for twenty minutes. I remember the night we got a frantic call from a babysitter looking for the Nelsons, and Kate and Brian had to go get flashlights and go up and down the rows whispering, "Are you the Nelsons? Nelsons? Are you the Nelsons?" while the whole theater grew gradually and subliminally worried about their children. The Nelsons were eventually located and taken out into the lobby to call their sitter. They got to the phone just as Frankie was ending his shift and walking out the door. As the door swung open, two fire trucks raced by with sirens blazing, and Frankie turned to the Nelsons with a big grin on his face and said, "They're goin' ta your house, man! Yer kids are DEAD!" and just walked out. I remember making Mike (the most timid man alive) answer the phone, causing patrons to get movie synopses that went something like, "House of Cards. It's about a little girl who dies and then stops talking. CLICK!" (Very funny if you've seen House of Cards.) I remember Ken answering the phone, too. "We're currently showing Guilty as Sin. Who's in it? Um… Don Johnson, Rebecca de Mornay and… uhm… former president Jimmy Carter. Yes sir. Cameo. He's in the jury box. Watch for it." I remember the power blinking out my first night on the job, and having to rush up to reset the projector while the three patrons went berserk. As we returned from setting things right, a woman said, "You handled that very well," prompting Jimski FirstDay to look at her and reply, "Shucks, ma'am, this kind of thing happens to us all the time here." I remember a man complaining to Frankie that it was too cold to have an outdoor box office, causing him to reply, "Oh, you buncha babies!" and shut the window. (Come to think of it, we're most likely responsible for getting the place closed.) I remember the 50 showings of the Rocky Horror Picture Show I sat through on Saturdays. I have been propositioned by more grown men in teddies than any straight man in the midwest. Not that that was a big deal; even if you don't want to go to the party, it's always nice to be invited. I remember the Halloween when we had no janitor and had to clean up after the biggest Rocky Horror crowd we'd ever had. I stayed there until 4 a.m. blowing toilet paper and playing cards into a corner with a leafblower, only to go outside and discover that someone had T.P.ed my car. And of course, I remember when my coworkers decided to rid the building of a ghost using a ouija board and the wacky supernatural hijinks that followed. But that's a looooooooooong story. Maybe next Halloween. I remember staying until 2 a.m. the night before a premiere to watch the movie (you know, to see if it was put together properly). Hilarious MST3K sessions from the balcony, including Shaquille O'Neal's Blue Chips, which was so bad Ken ripped an armrest out of his seat at one point and threw it at the screen. I remember thousands of things that I just don't want to get into here. Bad things, too. I'll let you know when the book comes out. But although I miss the place, I was mostly surprised that it lasted as long as it did. Ken and I were there a few months back, trying to see Erin Brockovich. When we got there, the entire staff was outside the theater, walking down the sidewalk. "Two for the only movie you're showing," I said. "Actually," the manager replied, "It started like fifteen minutes ago. Most of the set-up is really in those first ten, fifteen minutes." I left with a sense of an unbroken circle. Even at the end, the Shad died as it lived, and that's really all anybody can ask for.
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| As the presidential campaign draws to a close and the debates loom, I get more and more psyched about the possibility of going to one of the debates. One of them is being held like five minutes from my place, which besides making my commute like dental work on wheels that day also gives me a rare opportunity to really get to know the candidates. See, from what I hear, the local debate is being held "town hall" style, with the audience providing the questions. I can't help thinking a couple of questions from me and my friends would really energize the campaign. And I'm not just talking about Chris running up to the mic in a Batman mask and saying, "Mister Pwesident, the monkey has stolen my banana bread!" I'm talking about actual questions which I would genuinely like to hear answered. GORE: ...and in conclusion, let me just say that while my opponent and I both agree on the death penalty, the immorality of Hollywood, the importance of our children’s schools, and that Stryper is the best band ever, only I really truly care about the high cost of prescription drugs. MODERATOR: Mr. Bush? Rebuttal? BUSH: Prescription drugs! I was just gonna say prescription drugs. I was just about to say that. The cost is very high, and seniors have had enough. And our children’s schools, also. Very important. Accountability. Schools for our children. Stryper rules! (audience bursts into raucous applause) GORE: I care about prescription drugs and our children’s schools WAY more than you do! If elected, I plan to give prescription drugs to all schoolchildren everywhere! Claritin! Prozac! Rogaine! Viagra! You name it, daddy’s boy, Junior’s gonna be floatin’ home from football practice! BUSH: Listen here, you ponce: NOBODY cares about seniors and kids more than I do. You hear me? There are seniors with kids who don’t care as much about seniors and kids as I do. Prescription drugs are my issue. I don’t care if I have to buy a codeine for every man, woman, and child in this goddamn country. JIMSKI: Um… Hi. This question is for either candidate. I'm a 25-year-old unmarried male voter. I don't care about the high cost of prescription drugs. At all. I know it’s on the cover of Newsweek and everything, but when I saw that cover I threw the Newsweek away. I do not care. Also, as little as I care about the high cost of prescription drugs? Multiply that by ten, and that's about how much of a flying fuck I give about our children's schools. I don’t know anybody in our children’s schools. I don’t know anybody who knows anybody in our children’s schools. Say something to make me vote for you. BUSH: Did you hear something? JIMSKI: He-hello? Yeah, that was me. I’m over here in front of the microphone. Please, give me a reason to vote. Any reason. I want to leave my house that day. I want to do it. I’m begging you. Stop talking about old people and reading tests and please, for the love of sweet Christ, say anything to me. “Go Rams.” Anything! I exist, damn you! I EXIST! AND I’M REGISTERED! TALK TO ME! BUSH: I could have sworn I heard something. GORE: Huh. Oh well. Let’s go ban some movies and gas some people! (BUSH and GORE high-five and, through their hands, meld into a single being. Credits roll.) Right now, as it stands, I’m gonna have to go Gore. My logic: in order to spin an elaborate web of lies, you at least have to know what you’re talking about. --- Last weekend, there was a sneak preview of Almost Famous at the local theater. I was keen to go, but at more or less the last minute I decided to go to a trivia night. It had been a while, and Team Hubris’ manager Tim was beginning to twitch. He needed his fix badly; the week before, we’d gone to the “championships” (what ruling body determined these were the championships, I don’t know) only to find out that they were sold out and we couldn’t play. I thought one of us was gonna cry. We took being unable to play very badly; we left right as Chris noticed aloud, “You know... nobody’s really guarding the trophies, per se....” So this week, participation was almost mandatory. We were hobbled with Mary Catherine gone, of course, but we were confident that our streak of ever-improving scores would continue without her. She needs to come back. We got stomped like rats in a restaurant kitchen. Well, maybe not stomped, but… damn! I mean, we were solidly in the middle, but Team Hubris does not “do” the middle. We are the champions, my friend, and we’ll keep on fighting till we run out of pretzels. |
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If I had to pinpoint any one thing that led to our downfall, it would have to be the third rule of Trivia Nights,* namely: “Your answers are never bad. The questions are bad.” And brothers and sisters, these questions were godawful. Scary Movie godawful. More than anything else, even more than Scary Movie, they reminded me of my published college professors. See, the questions were from a professionally published book (“the #1 trivia book on Amazon.com for ten minutes running!”) and the author was the guy reading the damn questions. Needless to say, he was afflicted with the almost malarial Author’s Fever, which swims in your head and gives you the delusion that anything you can get published is magically incontrovertible. People with Author’s Fever will flip open the book like a mystical talisman and point you to a page in their tome as if it were the dictionary or the Bible, as if the guy who wrote it wasn’t the same jackass standing right in front of you. Rarely has anyone with Author’s Fever ever met a fact checker. This trivia emcee didn’t know the difference between a league and a fathom, but by God, it was in the book! Amazon wouldn’t sell crap!
We wanted clarification about a biology question, something about the name for the line connecting the [body part a] to the [body part b]. And Chris went up to the guy and asked, “Isn’t [insert answer here] the name of the line that connects the A to the B?” The guy looked at him and said, “What’s the name of the line that connects your hand to your crotch?” That… that is not the caliber of trivia judge I am used to. I’m telling you, all the integrity has gone out of the sport. I blame the media. And probably our children’s schools. The trivia night was held in one of our children’s schools, and by a published author from the media, no less. A couple of tables over, I looked and saw these thirtysomethings who were calling themselves Team Titan or Team Thundercats or some damn thing. I know this because they had a giant multicolored crepe paper banner, a banner suspended over their table with balloons. It was like seeing the future. I almost had to go throw up. ---- I did eventually get to see Almost Famous, and I left very pleased to see someone making fame and fortune out of his thinly veiled autobiography. It bodes well. Of course, I didn’t tour with Zeppelin when I was fifteen. Hell, I didn’t do anything when I was fifteen. The most interesting thing that ever happened to me when I was fifteen was that time I got stopped by the police for suspected gang involvement. And people always laugh when I say that--I am apparently prone to exaggeration--but that is what happened. My friend Ed was driving us around in his red 1969 Chevy Caprice, which he loved so much I’m not sure he could have had the car and a girlfriend at the same time (not that that was ever going to be an issue at our age), and we were trying to get to the Incarnate Word mixer ahead of another car full of geeks. In order to beat a red light, we decided to cut through the parking lot of a grocery store. Unfortunately for us, an anonymous tipster had phoned the local police earlier to warn them that a gang of kids from Bombed-Out Crackhouse High were planning to have a vicious knife fight with a gang of kids from Bombed-Out Crackhouse East right in that very parking lot on that very night. Since my neighborhood was crime-free, most of the local police had gotten very... comfortable with their authority, let’s say, and had formed a special unit known as the Dickhead Task Force. The DTF charter committed this unit to being as irritating as possible to anyone too young to rent a car. (I say this not as someone who kept getting caught doing drugs or drinking in farmers’ fields or some other delinquent nonsense; I say this as an honor roll student who once got stopped on suspicion of shoplifting on the way into a store.) Thanks to the community outreach of the DTF, I was 20 years old before I encountered a policeman without thinking, “Isn’t somebody being shot somewhere or something?” The DTF solution to the knife-fight tip: hide on the periphery of the parking lot and detain anyone young enough to be their sons. They hid well enough; we were so oblivious to them as we pulled up to the speed bump that when they sprang from every direction like leprechaun ninjas, the sound of six voices cracking in unison mid-scream nearly shattered the rear window. Cars from around the corner. Men from out of unmarked cars. Men emerging from shrubbery. If the trash cans had sprouted legs and shouted, “Freeze!” I cannot say I’d have been stunned. Stunned more, anyway. Inside the car, the heated recriminations began immediately. “Ed, how the hell fast were you going?!” “No faster than, like, 25!” “15, Ed! The speed limit is 15!!!” “Who the hell can drive 15 miles an hour?! This is a ’69 Chevy! It idles at 25!!” “Is this because we tried to beat the light? Oh God, this is because we tried to beat the light! My mom is gonna kick my ass!” “Not to mention Leadfoot over here and his damn 25 miles an hour in a parking lot! They’re gonna call my parents! They’re gonna call my parents, and I’m never gonna get to dance to ‘Wonderful Tonight’ OR ‘In Your Eyes’!” “Ten cops for one traffic stop? Isn’t somebody being shot somewhere or something?” One of the officers swaggered over. “You boys step out of the car, please.” So we all got out of the car and waited for them to towel the urine off of our pants. While no towels were forthcoming, they did call all of us over to the squad car one by one. They took our wallets and asked us our names, birthdays and social security numbers while comparing them to our licenses. Those of us without licenses also got a delightful pupil check. They took Ed’s CD player out and checked the serial number to make sure it hadn’t been scratched out, since apparently the DTF had once read in a book somewhere that criminals did things like that. It was logical to assume that we had stolen the CD player; after all, we were driving past a grocery store! I remember that as we stood there by the squad car, S. (one of the kids with us) tried to convince himself not to hyperventilate by attempting to make friggin’ small talk with one of the officers while we all tried to psychically fuse his mouth shut with our eyes. “That’s… that’s a big gun, there.” ”Shut up! Will you shut the F%$& up?!” In retrospect, I’m not really sure what he was doing out with us that night. After about half an hour of this, the police told us what we had done, or rather what we hadn’t done in any way, shape or form. All I really remember is hearing the lead officer say, “...and so we were just gonna stop anyone younger’n my son,” and thinking, “So, this is that ‘discrimination’ I’ve been hearing so much about. Tastes like chicken.” Little did I know that I would have many more incidents ahead of me throughout high school. The night I was threatened with a loitering arrest for eating frozen yogurt too slowly and quietly in front of the frozen yogurt stand. The night John’s tire blew at 1 a.m., and the spare tire’s fasteners were rusted shut, and we saw the two cops sitting in the McDonald’s parking lot talking and asked them for help, and they said, “There’s a grocery store ‘bout a half mile that way. Why don’t you go walk there and call your daddy and ask him to help you?” and went back to their conversation. The night my tail light went out and the DTF guy used it as an opportunity to test my sobriety. The day I was detained in a back room and frisked under suspicion of shoplifting, and did I mention I was on my way into the store? Crazy times, crazy times. The first positive experience I ever had with a police officer was when I moved into my first place and I needed them to come over and save me from those unruly damn punk teenagers. But see, that knife fight incident? I couldn’t stretch that to movie length. Maybe if I had S. take the big gun and start shooting. But even then, what kind of flick would that be? Almost Lame-Ass? I’ve gotta start doing more interesting things. Well... no. Never mind. If they can make a movie about karaoke, I can write the definitive trivia night movie without a problem. Get Gwyneth on the phone! *The first rule of Trivia Nights is: Do Not Talk About Trivia Nights. The second rule of Trivia Nights is: Do NOT Talk About Trivia Nights.
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