By Jim “The Trendsetter” Benson
If you had told me that fateful Thursday morning what was in store for me later that night, I would slapped you so hard you would’ve seen stars. Sure I’d seen the trailers, who hadn’t? They played them before every gatdamn movie in the line up all summer. Everyone knew it was coming, but were any of us truly ready?
That’s what I thought to myself as I poured my cornflakes this morning. It wasn’t about the movie, it was about the experience, for what matters more, the two hours you’re inside the theater or the eighty years you’re outside of it? Waking up, I thought I knew the answer, but now I’m not so sure.
So I scribbled all of this down in my notebook as I waited to pick up my popcorn when the lady in front of me turned to ask the time. She was going to see Antman, and was worried it had already started. I uttered a couple pleasantries and let her know that it was, in fact, 6:40, but it got me thinking. Can anyone truly have the time? What makes some of it yours, and some of it mine, when it’s all counting down for each of us?
And suddenly, one second I was in line, the next I was back in my old house in Philly, laying in bed next to my ex-wife, smoking a cigarette and watching reruns of Two and a Half Men on TV wondering how it all ends, when it all began, and what is there to do in the mean time. For what are we, if not sidereal flecs of feces smeared on the bathroom wall of eternity, right above a drawing of a phallus and a key-etched Kilroy?
4.3 Wistful Sighs out of How Often I Think of You in a Day