Return of the Metreons

A few weeks ago my husband and I saw our first movie in San Francisco. Previous cinema trips had been over at the Art Deco-licious Paramount in Oakland to see Casablanca and my grandmother in The Women. Finally, we scrimped and saved our pennies and were able to treat ourselves to the $9.75 tickets to see Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban at the Metreon.
We don’t go out to a lot of movies. In fact, we really prefer to rent especially since Netflix makes that process so deliciously easy and because I have grown so intolerant of Other People in Movie Theatres. For instance, during the previews the chick two seats away from me hissed “I’ve gotta pee!” Thanks, I really wanted to know that. Then there was this other girl down in front, who didn’t just stop with the ballsy move of answering her cell phone, she actually proceeded to have a complete conversation. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MOVIE! And it was on one of those walkie-talkie cell phones where you have to pull the phone away from your ear to talk into the mouthpieces and then Over the chirp back.
I think it’s because we go so infrequently that, when we actually do take in a picture show, I’ve totally become Dolby’s bitch. Even supposedly bad movies (Nemesis) totally pull me in with the BIG screen, the SURRRROUUUUND SOOOUUUUND, and the popcorn with fantastically fake butter.
In fact, movie theatres might actually be the best place to give me bad news because I’d be all “My editor did WHAT to my piece?! Ooh, previews…pretty….”

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