Cheap Bastards

To say I’m a movie buff is an understatement. Yet for however many hours and how much cash I spend for the privilege of celluloid bread & circus, I never stop at the snack stand on the way in – something about spending $10 for stale popcorn just doesn’t compute. However, the other day, as I was waiting in the lobby of Gallery Place for a couple of friends to show up, I noticed that the smallest popcorn size was labeled ‘child.’

I can just picture the meeting where whatever marketing guru (doubtlessly smelling faintly of brimstone) told the head of the theatre chain that, if he wanted to draw in money from more concessions, to just label the smallest possible size something that would make an adult hesitate in shame to order. It’s so brilliant that I’m surprised other industries haven’t picked up a variation of it. I mean, hell, instead of ‘economy’ class, we can just label that whole section of the plane ‘cheap bastard seating.’ Instead of a ‘value meal,’ we can call it ‘poorhouse special.’ I mean, if you can’t sell it through sex, just use the almighty power of shame. It’s a very powerful thing indeed, the need to preserve one’s status in the eyes of your fellow man.

Big things happening - by the end of July, either lots of balls will be rolling in beneficial directions, or I'll be crushed. In the meantime, a Noah-scale deluge has sunk our fair city (or at least its subway and most of its federal core) under a couple inches of water. Everyone's roof has leaked; everyone's commute ruined by 3-4 feet of water on the subway tracks. And because of the low-pressure system hanging off the coast, the weather will be general for the rest of the week. That's okay with me, since my place has stayed watertight; I spent yesterday night (between bouts of writing) sitting on my stoop and getting joyfully soaked as the heavens roared and flashed with the Earth's artillery, and sheets of rain soaked my skin.