Play It Again Sam Because I Didn't Hear A Thing The First Time Round: Slurp, Crackle, Popcorn

I sit in a dark and gloomy bar, somewhere on the outskirts of the Cape Town Harbour. Outside a neon sign flickers in the winter darkness reading Ricks Café Americain. I wore a deadpan expression on my face, staring deeply into the rolling remains of my diluted bourbon. A couple of other drunks sit near by mumbling obscenities under their breaths to ghost like patrons seemingly lost in their own misery.

A piano man unofficially donned Sam taps away at the keys of a salmon colored piano in the corner of the room playing what sounds like the beginning of Claire De Lune or some other melancholic tune.

“Christ it had been a long year and it was only May.” I mutter under my breath, “Sam?”

“Yeah boss”

“Its 31st of May in Cape Town, I’m guessing it’s about the same in Casablanca. What time do you think it is in New York?”

“I…my watch stopped working boss.”

“I bet they’re sleeping in New York. I bet they’re sleeping all over America.”

Overcome by the pain I slam my fist down onto the bar. “Of all the cinemas, in all the cities in all the world they walk into mine. They had to order the extra large popcorn, a gigantic slushy drink, and whispers to boot. Arrive five minutes late and sit in my isle. What’s that you playing?”

“Oh, just a little something on my own” he responded sheepishly.

“Well stop it. You know what I want to hear.”

“No I don’t”

“You played it for those two you can play it for me. 

“Well I don’t think I can remember…”

“You play at a bar called Ricks Café Americain God damnit. Now play it!”

“Alright boss”

Sam begins to play “As Time Goes By”.

“Christ I haven’t heard this tune in a while. Brings back painful memories of a time when a night out at the cinema still had a certain romance to it. Back then we didn’t go to the movies. We went to the pictures. We dressed up and respected the time-honored tradition. Nobody had cell phones or facebook to ‘check-in.’ Nobody cared if you were reuniting with your college pals at some trendy bar, or how much you ‘mish’ each other, paraded unashamedly over virtual ‘walls.’ You didn’t check in with anyone, people only checked out… And when they did, we went to their funerals and that was the end of it.

“What was the last picture you went to see Sam?”

“Crazy, Stupid Love with Steve Carrell I think.”

“And was it any good?”

“It was pleasant enough.”

“You don’t lie as well as you used to Sam. You know it was God-awful drivel. What did the audience think of it?”

“They seemed to be enjoying it.”

“Of course they did. You know what’s worse then an unintelligent movie Sam?

“No boss.”

“An unintelligent audience that’s what. Oh, Who can blame them? What with the dross that Hollywood produces every week…their expectations have lowered…”

“I guess Boss…”

“But I do blame them. If they stopped paying the entrance fee the careers of these unfunny hacks would die and I wouldn’t be three quarters of a way through a bottle of Jack. I saw that Avengers tonight. Highest grossing opening weekend since Harry Potter they tell me. Where did all the money go? I’ll tell you where it went. Into a bunch of high-powered effects that’s intended to distract you from a lack of meaningful plot and one-dimensional characters.  The only character I found half believable was that green angry fella.”

“The Hulk?”

“Yeah him…the only character I could relate to. Course I might have enjoyed it a little better if the guy sitting a couple of seats down from me wasn’t performing fellatio on his straw that  protruded out of his oversized slush. If he’d exhibited the same kind of skills on the strip they’d call him Roxanne.”

“You don’t have to put on the red light” sang one of the drunks across the bar as if a dog howling to the moon.” The bar fell silent for a moment.

I continued, “Anyway, I gave him the quarter head turn, then the half head turn, and he still carried on sucking away. His goddamn slush was empty by the second trailer. We all knew it. But he just continued to slurp away at the goddman thing like he was Daniel Day Lewis sucking for oil. And always at the most inappropriate times, right over important dialogue. You think people would exhibit some restraint in their eating habits during the more intimate moments of a film…. not that there were many in The Avengers. Just a bunch of explosion and action scenes followed by some nauseatingly smug quips from Robert Downey Junior.”

“I thought he was kinda funny boss”

Ignoring Sam I continued, “Oh who am I kidding, all the romance of it is dead. It died a long time ago when the cell phone was born and social networking became second nature. People’s attentions spans lasted longer then a music video. Comedy wasn’t reduced to a bunch of bridesmaids getting diarrhea…the genius of that. These days going to the pictures is like flying economy class. Leg room has been reduced, ticket prices have gone up, you’re forced to sit next to people that aren’t fit for a zoo and just when you’re about to get comfortable some little blue light flickers in the corner of your eye, accompanied by a loud whisper that says, “'Excuse me I have to use the toilet again…'I might as well wait for the movie to come out on DVD.

“You’re only saying this because you’re drunk and…”

“I’m saying it because its true! I sit in these theaters watching these pathetic excuses for public service announcements that urge the audience in vein to turn their cellphones off, and somehow it never gets through. That’s because they’re never hard hitting enough. If I had my way Christian Bale would accompany me to every film and if anyone so much as uttered a word over a piece of dialogue they’d have the Terminator to deal with. I public humiliation fit of an angry Mel Gibson.  But they’ll never do something like that of course because the companies that own the cinemas couldn’t care what you do once you’ve paid the price of admission. ‘Set the fucking reptiles loose on each other’ they’ll say, ‘as long as the movie makes budget.’"

A thud is heard as another one of the drunks falls off his stool.

“And yet week in week out I return to these relics is the naïve hope that it’ll be different this time. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon... Soon I’ll go see a picture. The audience will be considerate, turn off their phones and sit down in time. They’ll realize that they can put their lives and relationships on hold for a couple of hours, sit in the darkened theater and be absorbed into another universe. Be transported into a world foreign to their own that contains truths so true its as if the dialogue was written for them alone. This is my hope Sam…”

“We all hope for that boss.”

“Cheers to that,” another drunk says as be proceeds to tumble, joining his friend on the floor.

“Sam, I’m no good at being noble but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of a couple of drunks, a piano man and one infrequent blogger doesn’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Some day you’ll understand that.” A single tear rolled down Sams cheek as he chimed out the final notes of ‘As Time Goes By.”

“Now now,” I commiserated, “Here’s looking at you kid.” And raised a toast to hoping.

END   

Embellish A Little

Dear fellow burners,

Recently a friend of mine got involved in a rather nasty cycling accident resulting in two broken arms. This was during the 5 Boroughs Bike Race in and around New York City. Apparently he had a momentary lapse of concentration (probably admiring some passing by fun-bags on the side of the road – not confirmed), which resulted in his foot getting caught in his front wheel and the subsequent tumble.

Naturally I was sympathetic but advised that he might change up his story a little. There’s nothing particularly heroic or interesting about getting your foot caught in your front wheel regardless of the size of the fun bags, which I imagine must have been fairly substantial (wait...lets imagine them for a little bit longer. Yeah, they must have been glorious). Embellish a little, I said. This story could work to your advantage and maybe even get you laid. 

This is what I suggested he might say:

It was a dark and gloomy day in cold, scary Brooklyn as you sped along the route of the 5 Boroughs Bike Race, avoiding bullets, discarded Pabst Blue Ribbon cans, and other natural hazards of the borough, in your single minded pursuit for victory. Though this race was for more than victory. It was for little Jimmy, for little Kimmy and all the other sweet, sweet kids at the St George’s Children’s Hospital that needed your support. The race was going well. Your legs were a little sore from the marathon you ran for the St. Bartholomew’s orphanage the previous night but all things considered you were making good time. Seemingly out of nowhere, a little boy ran into your path, chasing his labrador puppy, (though in Brooklyn odds are it would have been a malnutritioned midget hipster OR Gary Coleman and Urkels love child chasing a rat – but as I said embellish a little). Cars rushed towards you in the opposite lane but you had no other choice but to swerve into the oncoming traffic. You plowed straight into a black Escalade, which sent you flying a good 10 feet in the air. The Escalade lost control and slammed into an out-of-order fire hydrant.

The driver seemed to be ok but the car was a right off. After dragging yourself up from the glass littered tar, you noticed the drivers face for the first time. It was none other then FBI’s most wanted, Miguel Juan Antonia Ortega also known as El Puma or The Puma, (who you’d recognized from an interesting and informative documentary on "The War On Drugs" which aired a couple of nights ago on Discovery). Instinctively you made a b-line for the escaped drug trafficker come-murder. You chased him right down into the 'Marcy Avenue' subway. Driving through the people, you lost him briefly and somehow you found yourself on opposite platforms, starring each other down. You would have pulled out your 9mm at that point but you'd left your piece at home after watching an interesting and informative documentary on Discovery entitled "The War On Guns".

Miguel gave you a dirty grin as a train approached on his side. There wasn't enough time to cross the platforms using the stairs or tunnel, so you decided to leap across… a ‘leap of faith’ if you will. Your whole life flashed before your eyes as the distant train galloped towards you. You remembered all the charity work you did on your 'Gap Yah’ in South America and Sniffles, your Belgian Corgy, that had passed on when your were eight. You remembered your favorite meal, cooked by your Mom and the first pass of a football with your Dad, which ultimately lead to a brief but eventful two-year professional career at Fulham FC. (Nobody would question the validity of this because know one really knows who's playing for Fulham FC at any given time or cares.) You remembered the first time you made love to your first and only love of your life but simultaneously had something of an epiphany, realizing that you could love again as long as you 'believed' and found the 'right' girl... [At this point, you take a sip of your beer and look into the distance reflectively].

[Returning to the story], Miraculously, you landed on the other platform missing the hurtling train by inches.  Miguel wore a stunned look on his face as he entered the train, amazed by your heroism. You scrambled up and gave chase into subway car. Chasing him from car to car, Jason Bourne style, you found yourself at the final car and seemingly had El Puma cornered. "The games up Miguel!" you said, “You can’t keep running for the rest of your days!” "You'll never get me alive" responded a defiant but worn out Puma. He made a dive for the door just before the train departed. Wedged between the doors, he struggled to get out as you tugged to get him back in. The train started to move. With one last push Miguel somehow managed to squeeze out the jammed doors. "You see amigo, no one can stop El Puma!" But you still had a grip on him as the train accelerated out of the station, your arms protruding out the doors. You weren’t going to let go now. "Let go" shouted Miguel. "Let go you son-of-a-bitch. But you defiantly held on. "I'm invincible!" he yelled, “invincible!”

"No Miguel,” you said calmly, “You're just another brick in the wall!" [INSERT CLASSIC QUOTE HERE.] BANG

You might want to work on this line a little. Perhaps something more cutting. Something Arnold or Christian Bale would be proud to deliver. Something like... "lets see if cats really do land on there feet, El Pumo"....which doesn't really make sense since he's not really falling  but rather being slammed into a wall at high speed.

[CONTINUED] as you ‘delivered this timely quote, Miguel smashed into the oncoming wall along with your now, dislocated and broken arms. You fell back to the floor of the train, panting and in pain. Your arms dangling like pool noodles from your shoulders. [PAUSE briefly].

You never did find out if Miguel survived the ordeal but you suspect that he didn't. All you do know is that you had a race to finish because God knows that St. George’s Children’s Hospital didn't need any more broken promises. And with that you gathered up your strength, hobbled off at the next stop, recovered your mangled bike, and rode, hands-free the rest of the way, through the remaining boroughs.

Naturally anyone with a heart will call you a hero and buy you a drink but if not, maybe you could add:

“I’m glad I managed to finish the race I guess, but I’m just a little sad I couldn’t get the victory I had promised for little Jimmy, for little Kimmy and for all those beautiful kids at St Georges. I guess next year I’ll just have to try harder.”

Anyway, I wish you a speedy recovery.

Solly