Opie & Me

On our way to theater 13 we walked past award winning movies such as Gran Torino, Slumdog Millionaire, Revolutionary Road, MILK, Valkyrie, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, and Bride Wars. OK so maybe not Valkyrie, although well executed, it is up against some tough competition this year and will probably lose out. My point is there are some great movies out right now. And we didn't see any of them.

Instead, we chose Marley & Me.

We were early. I pulled into a spot that really wasn't a spot. Had we not gotten several inches of snow in the previous 24 hours it totally would have been a spot (that was taken) but the plow, fortunately for me, could only push the pile so far, and left a half spot. A spot that several hundred people before me ignored. In fact, it was probably less than half a spot, but I took it anyways because, fuck it, right? We basically had the 17th best parking space in the lot if you consider all sixteen of those handicap spaces that are always unoccupied. Or worse, taken by people who don't have any visible disabilities whatsoever. These people, after flipping the stupid fucking "non-transferable" placard on their rear view mirror, usually end up skipping to the front door. And they always smoke. Always.

If I am going to circle around the lot a few times looking for a normal spot I want to see the people using the handicap spaces with really bad, tragic, and visible handicaps. I want to see the poor pricks in wheelchairs with straw-powered navigation. I want to see people who make me feel awful inside for complaining as much as I do. The ones who force me to re-evaluate my priorities in life.

I need to see Tiiiiimmmmmmmaaaaay.

I don't want to see "Nancy" who has a handicap placard because she smokes, eats, and drinks too much. What, Nancy can't possibly be expected to walk an additional 30 feet to the entrance before she saunters her fat ass around the mall hunting down the nearest Cinnabon? No, not her. She has a doctor's note to prove it. And a lawyer too.

Unlike those inconsiderate assholes, I jammed the JETTA halfway into a snowbank. I even backed up, and punched it so I could really cram it in there. Despite my efforts the entire back end was sticking out like a F350 extended cab, with dualies, parked in a Compacts Only section. Hey, it was a legal spot and it was within the lines, but I can guarantee that 9 out of 10 people said:

Will you look at this asshole?

And they'd be right. I know I would be yammering on, like Paul Giamati in every role he's ever played, if I were on the other side of the parking transgression. I am so unbalanced and mentally fragile that it would take me about an hour to let it go.

Who does that? Seriously who does that? That guy just parked there and he thinks that that sort of thing is OK. In his convoluted fucked up world, parking like that is acceptable. You know what? I'm just glad my grandfather isn't alive to see how fucked up this world has become. He was a gentleman. His generation had a sense of decency. Now? Now the world is totally fucked. Nobody cares. It's a C minus world. And it's only going to get worse. The same animals who park their shitbox JETTA like that are having more animals. And those animals will have more animals. What a disgrace. I mean nobody could get by, but that probably wouldn't bother him because he is either too stupid to know the difference or he just doesn't care. But it does bother me. I don't want to live in a world where something like that is OK. A large popcorn and two diet sodas please. Thank you. Yes with butter. Thank you very much. Do you have the tickets? Oh I have the tickets. They were in my pocket. Which theater are we in? Why do they print these things so small. OK, theater 13. I know, I know I will try to let it go. It's the little things. OK I will stop. I know I can't change the things that are out of my control. Did you see it though? He was like 5 feet out of the max zone. He was way out of the limit. He couldn't just drive around? He had to be an asshole. I'm not shouting. It's the previews. OK, OK I will stop. OK. Fine. OK. Don't shush me. OK I won't. Just don't shush me. OK. Shush you. OK. OK. I will. OK.

But that's just me. I know myself. I know that I don't like people. I don't enjoy their company. I don't feel good about myself when I am surrounded by people. Aside form my family, I like only about a couple dozen people in the world. Tops. I could live without the rest.

As such, I've made adjustments in my life. I don't go out much. I avoid crowds and any opportunity for people to disappoint me. I know, it's sad, but this is just the way it is right now. I am of the belief that that the universe, ultimately, is not good. I don't believe man is inherently righteous and pure. Given the choice, man will always do what is in his or her best interest without regard for the greater good. Perhaps this dour, albeit battle tested, outlook is the product of my environment. Maybe it's the northeast? Maybe it's Boston? Maybe it's the subway and the filthy animals with whom I commute every single day? Maybe it's the depraved cut-throat industry I work in?

I don't know. Maybe I just need a vacation? Maybe I'm just a Kunt. Oh, it's OK because I spelled it with a K. It doesn't have the same effect as her cousin which is spelled with a C. This is safe for the networks. It's like the British version. It's kind of cute. Or kute.

Although I don't like people I do love movies so god bless Netflix and OnDemand for allowing me to enjoy one without the other. From the comforts of my home I can transcend my humdrum routine and experience a wonderful magical place on-screen without the body odor, nose hair whistle, the ass-in-the-face excuse me as some prick goes to the bathroom, ridiculous cell phone ring tones, incessant talking, giant craniums blocking my view, the cock-in-the-face excuse me as that same prick comes back from the bathroom with popcorn this time, coughing, sneezing, hacking, farting, and any other disgusting annoyances coming from my fellow man.

I guess what bothers me most is the potential of watching or listening to something beautiful and sharing it with people whom I consider undeserving. Yeah, yeah I know. Who the fuck am I?

Or worse, if they don't find the beauty in what I cherish.

So I become jammed up, anticipating that at any moment my experience will be ruined by an outburst from the crowd. Will I see another gentle, peaceful, and enlightened hippie behave selfishly at a Phish show? Will I hear another I didn't get it! That movie was HORRIBLE! We should have gone to Armageddon instead at the end of The Big Lebowski? Or witness a grown man in face paint yell at a referee from the second balcony?

I don't suffer from Agoraphobia, but instead prefer to avoid instances described above at all costs. Movie theater floors are like the sticky fly mats trapping the lowest common denominator and therefore the cineplex is on my bad list. Instead, I prefer nights when it's just me, my girlfriend and Opie sitting on the couch watching a movie. Opie usually falls asleep on his back with his legs stuck straight up in the air. Snoring. He snores so loudly that we need to turn up the volume so we can hear the dialogue. But he's a dog. So his lack of social etiquette is not only excused, but encouraged. With belly rubs.



And that's about as good as it gets.

My girlfriend, a saint, teased me about my neurotic behavior pointing out that we haven't been out to the movies since Bourne Ultimatum, and that didn't really count because we saw it at the Drive-In. She allowed me to pick our seats, and I chose aisle seats in the second to last row. I figured odds were that most people would prefer the middle seats and we could have a comfortable buffer zone surrounding us. I was wrong. A couple of assholes smelling of fast food sat directly behind us. Great. Why didn't I just sit in the last row? Stupid Matt.

Then, a group of teenagers walked up the side aisle peering into the center looking for an empty group of seats together. I kept willing them, with my Jedi mind, to duck into an aisle, but alas, they chose our row. Fortunately, they left three seats between us which I found to be a delightful and courteous gesture. Maybe they were decent folks after all. Maybe the world isn't going to shit?

Nope. They were dicks. But we were still in the previews so I couldn't be too upset.

I realized that I was in the wrong target audience after suffering through the He's Just Not That Into You trailer. It had all the trimmings of a sappy chick flick: men are inconsiderate jerks; the hip gay friends who serve as fashion and cultural advisers foiled against the straight neanderthals the women actually long for; all the latest sayings like totally, mySpace as a verb, and so preceding any adverb; Jennifer Anniston; The Cure's 'Friday I'm in Love'; and a befuddled heroine, played by Drew Barrymore no less, who totally gets the guy in the end. The premise, to all you single ladies, is meaning what you say without saying what you mean. Whatever the fuck that means?

Don't even think about it. We're not seeing that one. Not even on Netflix. We aren't wasting a slot in the queue over that. You can OnDemand it, or see it with your sisters.

Next up, Shopaholic.

Yup. Definitely in the wrong theater. I wonder what all the men are doing today. They're probably fixing their snow blowers, looking at engines at the Boat Show, experimenting with a new BBQ rub, smoking ribs in their handmade smoker, welding, or maybe they ARE RIGHT NEXT DOOR IN THEATER 12 WATCHING GRAN TORINO!

OK, I've seen this same movie a hundred times. Working Girl, Legally Blonde, Clueless, Pretty Woman, and in the not too distant future He's Just Not That Into You. Yes, I will lose that battle too. It will somehow jump a list of documentaries in the queue and show up at our doorstep in that wonderful red envelope.

Terrific. Same premise as every other chick flick. The girl discovers her self-worth while battling her way in a man's world, but realizing in Act 3 that she's had the strength all along but wouldn't discover this unless she had conflict with the antagonist. Materialism, suddenly isn't important anymore. Yay!

The audience was laughing hysterically at all the clammy, hacky jokes. If this blog were a Woody Allen film, I would break down the fourth wall and look directly at the camera.

I sit in a cubicle, and someone out in LA is driving his convertible Porsche on The PCH getting road head because he wrote this piece of shit. You can't be serious? Yeah, it probably won't be as good as the book. It never is.

And I didn't expect Marley & Me to be any different. I enjoyed most of the book, but chose not to finish it because I didn't want to read about a dog dying. No thanks. Man losing his best friend. Awesome. Can't think of a better way to spend a couple of hours. All set. That would be retarded. I am still emotionally scarred from reading Old Yeller and Where the Red Fern Grows as a kid. I didn't need to repeat the same mistake as an adult.

Finally the movie started and I wondered if Owen Wilson was still on the junk. He looked pretty healthy so I assumed he was back on-track and doing well. I was happy for him. Then I tried to imagine what Jennifer Anniston's vagina looked like. Was it a beefy slab of lips, or was it neat and trim? Just a little slit? Sometimes you are surprised by these things. You expect some girls to have monster pussy lips, but then they don't. It's weird. I like both styles, but I wonder how that happens. I guess it's like God handing out big cocks. Some people get them and others don't. Just the way it is. She probably had large labia, but opted for the labiaplasty after Brad dumped her. Now Angelina Jolie, she looks like she has big pussy lips, but I would bet my small cock that she doesn't. She most likely has one of those surgical slits. Just my guess. My vagina instincts.

Then, I started thinking back, as one with ADD is wont to do, about a conversation I had with my friends over the summer. Naturally, it was about vaginas. We had exhausted breasts at that point. I was telling these guys that collectively we have seen a fair amount of vagina in our day. Some people, for example, have seen a vagina that other people in our group would absolutely kill to see. Like people we know. Neighbors. Friend's sisters. Friends of ex-girlfriends. The chick in History class (not mine since I went to an all male high school, but then again one of those dudes could be a post-op tranny.) The girl who used to work at Dunkin Donuts. Stifler's mom.

We could cover a lot of snatch as the classy broads like to call it.

So my idea was to hire a police sketch artist. We would describe, in detail, what we remembered about the vagina and he, or she, would bring that image in our mind's eye to life. Scratched out in charcoal on newsprint.


It looked more mean. It was an angry looking thing. More round up top. Bigger. Yes, much bigger. Billowy even. Like it was throwing up or something. But like a nice throw-up. Like a bouquet of flowers. And then it begins to taper off at the bottom. Yes, to a point. Not that pointy. Yes, like that. Wow, you are good. And there was a mole! Yes, a mole. On the right side. No the other side. Oh yeah, her left. My right. Yes, right there. I wouldn't say it was completely hair-free, but it wasn't completely shaven either. No, no, no certainly not waxed. We're talking 1993 here. Yeah. I know. That was like the birth of shaving. It certainly was. It was the renaissance of vagine. You know what it was? It was Cinemax. It was, it was. Think about it. That time when they switched from the saxaphone-heavy fantasy plot to more of the girl-next door scenarios. With that came the end of the big floppy bush. It was the early nineties when that happened. I'll bet you anything. We'll Google it. Fuck you. I guarantee that that was the turning point. OK, you're right. We're paying him by the hour and so far we've only done 20 sketches. Back to work. Do you need a water? A break. Anything. OK, so I think you've captured the essence pretty good, but I feel like we're missing something.

I thought my idea was the second (or first for my Jewish readers) coming of Christ, but was admittedly disappointed by the lack of enthusiasm in the room. Total silence. People just looked at me like I was a psychopath. I don't care what they say or think. It's a great idea and if I have to fund it myself, than God damn it I will. They all laughed at the Velcro guy didn't they? I rest my case.

I was startled out of my flashback because one of the teenagers got up to use the bathroom. He basically stepped on my leg without so much as muttering or gesturing a pardon. People suck.

Oh that Marley!

He and Opie would get along famously. In fact, Opie would probably make him look well-behaved in comparison. Like the half-retarded kid in grammar school who would come into the general population for Social Studies and make even the bully of the class appear tame. He would wreak of cigarettes (his own) and call the teacher a cunt while she pulled down the map of Western Europe. And she would turn around and demand to know, trying to be appear unbiased, who shouted that terrible naughty word. Nobody, including the teacher, had the balls to admit the truth. Then it would be onto learning about Prussia as if the outburst never happened. This kid ate pencils, etched red marks into his arm with eraser burns, and had a mustache in 4th grade because he was thirteen. Yeah, that kid. Opie would have the same effect I think.

Like Marley, he is impervious to training. He's been to hardcore, expensive one-on-one obedience school, but that went nowhere. I've read a million dog behavior books, watched tutorials on-line, and tried several different techniques used by other dog owners with no success. We basically need Caesar Milan. To live with us. In short, Opes, Ope the Dope, Lord Charles Oppenheimer III, Heimer and sometimes Asshole Face was at the pound for a reason.

I remember the day vividly. We drove up to Maine. It was snowing like a bastard and we almost got into an accident as we pulled into the shelter parking lot. We walked inside and asked to meet Opie. The staff were basically tripping over themselves trying to help us out. They were polite. Almost too polite, but you can never tell in Maine. When I asked the vet how long he was at the shelter she answered, without hesitation:

11 days!

She didn't have to think about it. She knew. No question.

But I could have sworn she added a quiet …this time a few beats later. Had Opie been through the system before? Was he a re-offender?

I was too busy playing with his big floppy ears to pay any attention. We fell in love. Instantly. We took him for a short test drive and he was prancing along as proud as could be. He was smiling even. There wasn't a question in the world that he was the dog for us. So we decided on the walk that we would pull the trigger. He was coming home with us.

As we made our way back to the office we stopped at the car to get our paperwork ready. The door was open and Opie jumped right into the backseat.

Look, he knows which car we drive. He's so smart. He must have smelled us. He's a real hound dog. Wow, this is a sign. We have to get him now.

We came back into the office and told the staff that we were going to adopt Opie. They all rejoiced. Wow, I thought. These people are really dedicated to animals. How lovely.

The vet pulled out a folder and began the paper work right away. She told us that if we took Opie home with us, that day, she would wave the normal adoption fee. We would only be required to pay for the medical bills he ran up while he was in their custody. Not a big deal. In total it was like $80. We couldn't believe our luck. We were getting a purebred Foxhound puppy for $80. What a deal! We signed on the dotted line, and within minutes we were the proud owners of Opie.

As we left, the entire staff wished us an onimous good luck!

Opie climbed into the passenger seat and fell asleep on my girlfriend's lap for the entire ride back to Boston. He snored for 4 hours straight. It was adorable. He didn't budge.

He slept for about 18 hours a day for the first week. I even commented that we must have the "chillest dog on the planet." But of course, that was short-lived. In no time Opie's unique personality came through. We had a wild man on our hands. He destroyed two heavy-duty crates by actually bending the bars, with his head, like a deranged zoo animal. So we tried to cordon him off in the kitchen instead of the dangerous crate situation. We barricaded the door with sofas, two useless cages, boxes, shelves, ottomans but when we returned home he would be sitting on the couch in the living room eating a pillow. He also escaped, like Houdini, from the house about a dozen times. He'd run the streets trying to find his way back to Maine. Or Mexico. Anywhere, but here. We'd eventually track him down, but we knew it was only a matter of time before he was run over by a bus because he never looked both ways. North Quincy isn't exactly Maine. If we left him in the car he would wind up chewing the entire interior. He ate all of our seats. He'd howl at prey that didn't exist. He was a lunatic. He was a hunting dog. Not a house pet.

It took us months for him to finally trust us. I gave him a pep talk one day telling him that he wasn't going anywhere. He was stuck with us for life.

So I could relate to all the shenanigans Marley put Owen and Jennifer "beef drapes" Anniston through. I became engrossed in the film. We kept looking at each other laughing at all the common traits Opie and Marley shared. They even played Dennis Wilson's River Song. A track I have fantasized as my own opening scene of the screenplay I have yet to write. Hey, this movie isn't so cheesy after all. I was laughing at all the same jokes as people in the audience. I was feeling good. I was happy.

My ADD finally subsided and before I knew it Marley was in the later stages of his life. The point in the book where I decided to stop reading. I nudged my girlfriend and motioned to the door. She shook her head no. I thought about maybe taking a walk. Or checking on the car.

Marley, now with a distinguished white face, took a laborious step up the stairs. Owen swallowed hard realizing that his days with his best friend were numbered. The golf ball I don't remember swallowing started to make its way up through my esophagus. I was in the red zone. I tried desperately to force my mind to wander to my happy place, but I couldn't. I was trapped in theater 13.

Things went from bad to worse. The writers teased the sniff of death quite cleverly as Marley suddenly went missing. Did he wander off to die alone? Was he struck by a car? Where is Marley?! Where the fuck is the little guy? Marley returned, but he wasn't doing well. He was lethargic and sick.

It was time.

I started doing the math on Opie. If we are lucky we will only have the little fella around for another 9-12 years. That's if we are lucky. I began to think about the dreaded day when we would be the ones at the vet carrying our little friend in his favorite brown blanket as other pet owners stare at the floor trying to avoid eye contact. I was beyond the point of no return. The tears jumped from my eyes without bothering to run down my cheeks. They just fell onto my lap. I suddenly had strep throat and I was trying to control my breathing.

The vet left Owen with his pal during their final moments together. Owen held onto Marley and gave him one final scratch behind the ear before he took his last breath.

Quietly, he was gone.

I was not only crying, but I was sobbing uncontrollably. Behavior appropriate for the side of a casket. I was doing my best to avoid the sudden intake of air. A sound so distinguishable and one that transcends all ambient noises for a one mile radius. I lost it. I was wheezing. Sniffling. Moaning. I was a complete mess.

The credits rolled and the audience silently headed for the exits. Lots of sniffling. Even the group of teenagers in our row left with their heads hung low. We sat in our seats until everybody was gone. The cleaning crew started making their way into the theater as we left. The tears dried up, but our eyes were swelled up. I was grateful that we were alone. My girlfriend went to the bathroom and I waited by the door thinking of my little guy at home. I couldn't wait to tackle him when I walked through the door. And take him for a walk. Let him chew on a remote control if he wanted to. I'd let him eat the rest of our couch. He was about 25% of the way through. Why not let him take the whole thing down. We could sit on the floor. I wouldn't matter.

I heard the toilet flush and walked over to the ladies room door where I imagined we would embrace and walk out of the theater together with a little bit of dignity. At that moment theater 12 let out. Suddenly the quiet hallway was filled with people who had just seen Gran Torino. Oh fuck. They were in a completely different mindset than I was, and it bothered me. I felt like they were robbed. They saw the wrong movie. I looked at the floor. Praying that I wouldn't bump into anyone I knew. Not in this condition. I started thinking of excuses. Allergies. The flu. Bad news at home.

Finally my girlfriend appeared and we made a bee line to the exit. Back to the poorly parked electric blue JETTA.

One step closer to my best friend who never lets me down.