Not only has an outing to the movie theater left my wallet in crutches, I have been prone to wake up in miniature pools of drool mid-way.
As a result of many failed attempts at catching a movie during its premier, I have decided to rent films via Netflix. This was three years ago and I have yet to re-establish my connection to the virtual Blockbuster. There is little hope for Netflix and I.
I need an incentive to use my dirty laundry fund for an hour’s plus worth of visual disenchantment. Perhaps a raffle at the end of the screening. I do not care about the prize, but I’d appreciate the thought. Plus, I have a thing for people who put forth effort into finessing the mundane.
Or what about a happy hour, where we can buy a bottomless bucket of popcorn for five dollars?
If not an incentive, then at least better romance scenes. If just as much time was spent into the creative development of tongue flicking as there has been into simulating car crashes and murders, then perhaps we would be a more empathetic, thus fulfilled species. Just saying.
Radical psychiatrist and psychoanalyst Wilhelm Reich is quoted in Ruth and Edward Brecher’s 1966 An Analysis of Human Sexual Response as having stated that “failure to reach orgasm was the basic cause of psychophisiological and behavioral disorders in human beings.” I agree and would like to progress his argument by proposing an analysis of insipid squirts of the nerf could explicate our current relationship to nature, which on a multitude of levels, is a violent and perverted one. I have a few more books to read until I can fully prove that point, but I’m sticking to it like a tongue on dry rice.
As it stands, very few movies urge me to want to jump atop something cute and straddle him. Watching a kissing scene, is more like watching Mr. and Mrs. Potatoe head swap detachable spit. Boring.
More than enough sex scenes pan away from nudity, preferring to catch close-ups of laced curtains, slivers of moonlight or a toe trying to fidget its way out the edge of a bed sheet. This is a waste of good optics. If the producer’s goal is to make me feel uncomfortable among a room full of strangers who either feel peer pressured to grope one another, or awkwardly shift in their seat, then they have succeeded.
If directors, want me to start supporting their films, I would opt for them to invest a little more time into their T.L.C campaign. No more lace curtains and censored private parts. (Unless you are watching a Tyler Perry special, then replace “lace curtains” with “domestic violence” to sustain my point). I want to see it all, so I can at least make up for the anatomy classes I
fell asleep through barely passed was not as interested in during college.
(Yes, theoretically, I can supplement missed classes with life experience, but sometimes I don’t feel like getting my hands dirty. And being naked for too long makes me cold. As is normal.)
Okay. Enough of my rambling and nail-polish remover intellect. All I am wanting to suggest is that we make sex look fun(ny) again. No shooting stars special effects nor flying fists. I just want a bit of flesh and humor, for the sake of humanity.