Moment of Zen

Or, okay, not zen, but something else entirely. Folks, today I decided to take the whole day off from any kind of responsible labor. I went to the gym, did an energizing seven miles, and devoted the rest of my afternoon to reading Almanac of the Dead and going to see the new Harry Potter film. I'm not sure whether or not this latter should qualify as a guilty pleasure, but I don't feel particularly guilty about it. Q and I have thoroughly discussed, and I think I'm pretty much on top of, the many problems with the Potter and the many more reasons why the phenom is simply annoying. Nonetheless, it's a pretty good story and I like keeping up with such things when possible. If I was a Potter nerd to the caliber of, say, BEM, I would have no doubt seen the film opening night. As it was, I waited until I had an afternoon of naughtiness away from my place of wage labor. I hoped the 3:50 showing wouldn't be TOO packed with bored adolescents whiling away a summer afternoon in the old, dark movie theater downtown. Here's the moment of zenishness: The theater was dead. I asked, anxiously, at the counter whether there was indeed a 3:50 Harry Potter and was assured that there was. I had not plugged two dollars into the parking meter for nothing, and I had been duped by those pesky parentheticals before. B and Q will no doubt recall the unfortunate Grindhouse event of the Spring of 07. Anyway, I bought my ticket, and the ticketseller promptly got on her walkie-talkie to announce that there was "one for Harry Potter," adding as an aside that I would be the only one in there. I think, though I'm not at all sure, that I stopped short of clapping my hands at this unexpected and very welcome news. I went into the theater, which was delightfully silent, and took my time selecting the perfect seat, dead center and I bit toward the front. I'm serious. It was something like pure, unadulterated joy. I was as tickled as a kid at a surprise birthday party. Right after I sat down, they started the movie. Then, after about five minutes, two women came in and sat in the back of the theater. They proceeded to do the commenting-on-everything-obvious thing that people like to do in theaters. "Yes," you want to say, "she really really is a bitch." "Oh my, I suppose that is the character's shoe left tellingly behind the bed." Whatever, it wasn't too bad, really. It was a little bit like having my lollipop stolen and was completely what I deserved.