Sometimes, I almost start to wonder if maybe I’ve been hanging around this old town too long. Like tonight, while watching the Oscar Ceremony, I had no idea who any of the young actors and actresses were, what movies came out recently, or even who Oscar is. I’m out of touch. Most of the recent movies I might be interested in seeing, like Cold Mountain because it was a great book, don’t make it down to Mazatlán, probably for reasons related to the box office. Also, I have a hard time figuring out the Spanish titles for the movies (for example, the Sound of Music here is known as La Novicia Rebelde, the Rebellious Nun. Babe is El Puerquito Valiente, the Valiant Li’l Piggy. I don’t know what Cold Mountain might be called, maybe Revenge of the Lethal Home Guard Vigilantes or Johnny Dang Near Comes Marching Home. Possibly it came and went without my realizing it.)* Worst of all, our children have declared a Cartoon Only Zone extending from the front parlor to the back bedroom. I dream of the day when I will finally catch up on all the thousands of quality flicks I have missed, starting with the complete works of Salma Hayak. The one new adult film that I did have the misfortune to see this year was the latest Lord of the Rings epic. It served me right. Sra Brady had “suggested” that I invite her out for dinner and a movie. It was our first “date” in about five years. For some inexplicable reason her mother had courageously offered to babysit and we jumped at the chance to escape the blissful shackles of parenthood for a few careless hours. I gallantly insisted we start off the

evening by taking in the eight o’clock screening of The Interminable Return of the Pointy Eared Ork Slaughtering Cherubs. I’d heard it was almost four hours long, and by the time the ordeal was over, it would be too late for us to go eat at a nice restaurant, thus saving myself about three days’ pay. Our evening got off to a nerve wracking start; the kids caught us in the act of tiptoeing into a taxi while Granny tried to distract them with a duck. We could hear their anguished screams half the way to the cinema. Guilt gnawed at us the rest of the night, compounding the agony of sitting through the worst movie I have ever seen in my life (overtaking previous champions Interlude with the Handsome Rampaging Vampires and Terminally Nuking Armageddon Into Smithereens). On the bright side, we were not hungry after it finally ended, though it took several beers to wash the bad taste out of my mind. How is it possible that someone would waste so much time and money filming such grotesque nonsense so that millions of people will waste even more time and money watching such grotesque nonsense? To think that it has taken in billions of dollars, rescued New Zealand’s economy, and swept the Oscars! I fear for Western culture. I think the ugliness of modern cinema is a symptom of overstress, solar deprivation and a chronic shortage of cold Pacifico beer. Fortunately, there is a cure: consult your travel agent. Maybe you, tasteful reader, need to be here too long, too. * Editor’s note: Don’t worry, EG, your movie has come and gone under the easily recognized title of Regreso a Cold Mountain, or Return to Cold Mountain.