. . . about Boogie Nights.

One is the one about how it's my husband's fault that I never saw it, because men are relentless channel-surfers, and will not go upstairs to announce that an interesting movie is about to start in fifteen minutes, so grab your driving glasses, some gin/water/both and a lap blanket, and come on down. And I promise not to change the channel in the middle of the movie, because I value my . . .

. . . where the fuck was I?

Ah, yes. Here's my good story about Boogie Nights. When it was in the second-run theatres my mom was still living in the hoity-toity part of Santa Monica, California, for fairly arcane legal reasons. She had an elderly, shiftless roommate at the time. This gal was in her 70s at that point, whereas Mom was only in her 60s. But the movie was playing on Montana Avenue at the Aero Theater on Montana Avenue one afternoon, and these two old ladies drove down a few blocks to see it one day.

My mother handed their tickets to the young man in the lobby with the pierced (nearly) everything, who asked them quite soberly, "should I be letting you in her e to see this?"

"Yes," my mother assured him. "It's fine."

After all, she is a scientist. And her friend is a doctor.

Apparently, it was fine. Thank G-d for science.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 12:04 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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