Jeremy's Ramblings, Babblings, and Other Pretentious Bullshit.
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
So this morning I heard speculation that the death of Ronald Reagan might influence the election in the fall. I have something to ask..........WHY??? What does the death of a 93 year-old man who hasn't done anything significant for the past 15 years (yes, I know he was battling with Alzheimer's, and yes, that is horrible, but I'm just stating fact) have to do with the results of this election? Anyone who says "Well, Ronnie died, so the Republicans deserve my vote" shouldn't be registered to vote. If that really is the case, and the passing of an ex-President is going to unfairly tip the scale of the election, then let's get Jimmy Carter on the sacrificial altar. It's only fair, and besides, he's a pushover.
Anyway, the real reason I'm here today (and by here, I mean on my blog, not here in the physical sense, because here in the physical sense is my office, and the reason I'm HERE is because they give me various money's) is to tell you about last night. I went to see "Taxi Driver" at the Bay Theatre in Seal Beach. It's always been one of my favorite movies, and on the big screen, it had a power and insight that I had never experienced before.
De Niro really does give one of cinema's greatest performances (I never noticed until this last viewing that his eyes seem to be on the verge of tears throughout the entire movie), and Jodie Foster and Harvey Keitel were awesome (their dance, normally a slow point for me, became incredibly powerful with Keitel's whispers filling the theatre). Never before have we felt so enamored with a racist sociopath.
Now here's the interesting part. I was a guy, dressed in jeans, sitting alone in a movie theater with a hand to my face watching De Niro's Travis Bickle, who at one point is dressed in jeans, sitting alone in a movie theater with a hand to his face. I realized that I look somewhat Bickle-ish.
And I wasn't the only one. As I'm leaving, I hold the door for a cute girl behind me, and upon seeing me, the smile that she gives is much friendlier than the one she gave me in a similar situation going into the theater. Suddenly, because I have the quiet lone wolf look about me, I became an interesting person, although she probably knew that I didn't hate black people, nor would I try to kill a Presidential candidate.
As I walked down the street, hands in the pockets of my dirty, aging jacket, I wished that I'd had a flask and a crumpled up twenty-dollar bill with me.
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