zzZilly me



Summer of 2014 has been a snoozer thus far for me. The ONLY thing I’ve been looking forward to for the past few months is the new Godzilla movie. Come on childhood, bring me back. Finally, I wake to find it’s opening day. I decide on a matinée, with a little àpropos sushi supper afterwards.

During the 77-mile drive to the theater, I run the movie trailers in my head. I’ve supped upon these little snippets for the past three months, building an eager appetite. The ads are moody, angry, and thunderous. For the first time since Grade 3, I believe in that 300-foot lizard.

One rude slap later in the empty theater parking lot, I discover there isn’t a matinée on opening day. I’ve traveled an hour and a half, yet it’s still ten hours until the first show. Shit.

The nearby brew pub seems to call. The warm glow, the sunny afternoon light to read and write by. To have a bite and a bitter beer. Wait things out.

Was it 5-beers in 5-hours? I don’t recall. I’m wasting an entire day in a sad pub alone–no banter with friends, no occasion–just drowning the shame of realizing I should have called ahead, checked movie times. I decide I am still 9 years old. Just a dumb, drunk, 9-year-old.

So hell, might as well be sushi time. Maybe if I eat raw fish for the next 5-hours, I’ll sober up.

What is it about drinking that suggests more is always better? I rub wasabi into my wounds, order a large sake and watch Asian MTV. The Japanese rockers on-screen sing, “something’s happening here, what it is ain’t exactly clear,” and after a couple warm carafe’s of rice wine, I’m ready to get a motel and settle for basic cable programing.  

I can only assume Aliens abduct me and transport me to the theater where I wake to find a pair of 3D spectacles over my bleary eyes. The time has come. There’s a great light that captures my gaze, as faint letters begin to unfold on the screen before me.

G  O  D


And then all is silent.

Somewhere between the opening credits and the final big battle near the end of the film, I open my eyes. I’d been asleep–in full 3D–for the entire film.

It’s likely I also snored the full 90-minutes to an angry crowd of smirking movie goers surrounding me.

What’s that taste in my mouth? Did I order gummy, zombie-head chews, or did those kids behind me actually plop them in my gaping pie-hole while I was snoozing?

I’ve had worse. My gullet’s been stuffed with day old socks. I’ve had bone-cold fingers clamped to my nostrils in an attempt to put me out of someone’s misery. I always awake in disbelief to the accusations of my guttural wails and garbled incoherencies.

As misunderstood as the creature I awake to on the large screen, I am disconcerting to observe and yet fun to scoff at from a safe distance. I’m defenseless yet offensive; clueless as to what my impact is to those on the ground; and there’s really no stopping me once I get going.

So I go. I am driving home in the darkness. I am wide awake and recanting days of old when I could actually watch a film without dozing. Back when cell phones didn’t mock your low moments before millions on YouTube. When the only interruptions to the daytime double feature was a pesky bathroom break during the good part. Back when, if you woke up to the credits rolling,  you could rely on your Mom to drive you home.