films on the hill

It is a standard art house crowd here tonight at Films on the Hill. They have to be as the film, Old San Francisco, isn’t one of them new-fangled talkies. No we’re talking a silent film, which was lucky for us. If the film had dialogue we would’ve missed it all thanks to the obscenely noisy bitch seated next to us.

First she slowly and nosily ate two bags of popcorn, loudly looking for the last crumbs in the bottom of the paper bags before crumpling them up and tossing them on my bag. Next she spent 20 minutes looking through her purse for another buck to buy bag 3. Oh, and we’re talking jingling keys and dropping metal bins of change looking in a purse. She even had the audacity to turn on a flashlight mid-search.

Had I been alone, when she paused in her noisemaking for a moment, I would’ve leaned over and said: “Please don’t stop the racket now; I might actually hear the music!”

This post appeared in its original form at DC Metblogs

Married, mortgaged, and soon to be a father, Wayan Vota is in the fast lane to mid-life respectability – until the day his brood finds his intimate journal of global traveling and curses him with the ever-eternal reply “I’m gonna be just like you, Dad!”

Comments are closed.