Indiana Jones fought Nazis with his murse.
Last night, I had a “this is my life” moment.
One of my roommates and I decided for some reason that we had to see the fourth death-is-inescapable fiesta, The Final Destination. Not to be confused with the first in the series, Final Destination, starring disappearing act Devon Sawa and that chick who finally got hot in her 30s, Ali Larter.
The first film came out when I was 15. Fifteen! Pretty crazy…
I remember seeing the first installment in North Carolina. By that point, movie theatres became really strict with the R-rating policy. If you were under 18 – yes 18, not 17 — you would not be allowed in the theatre.
Unfortunately and embarrassingly, the first film that I was not allowed to see because of this rule was Jawbreaker. It was especially sad, considering I’ve always loved seeing Pam Grier do her thing. I decided to evade the authorities from that point on. I snuck in.
Let it also be known that when I visit home, I still get carded at 24 for looking under 18.
Anyway — going back to last night — in between viewing what felt like a huge advertisement for both Pepsi and Real D, the 3-D technology being used now, I determined that I’m both a walking billboard for juvenile delinquents and man purses.
Again, it’s probably because I really like Pam Grier. She taught me well.
While I shelled out my virtually non-existent $14.50 (rent is due today, y’all) to see a movie that I knew would be bad to begin with, I made a semi-unconscious decision that I was going to stick it to the man by carrying around my huge murse with goodies. A picnic of epic proportions.
Hugh Jackman, aka Wolverine, hides secrets in his murse.
I realized this has been the case since my bout of underemployment started.
Last week, for example, I carried a $5 footlong from Subway, a liter of Pepsi (pre-Final Destination advertising), two cans of Dr. Pepper, and a large bag of skittles, among other things, into the movie theatre. We won’t even discuss what happens when the homeless lining Van Ness try to sell you bottles of Jack.
I am 24-years-old, not 14.
There is something slightly degrading about having to do this. After all, I’d much rather enjoy a nice fountain soda, in addition to the wonderfully soothing stomach coat of chemical butter sludge.
The Metreon and AMC on Van Ness better listen up. Because when I’m feeling particularly bad, there’s enough room in my murse for double or even triple features.
I’ll get you back when I get some cash money flow…
