Anybody else find Saturday night a little…odd? K-Cup and I headed over to our preferred neighborhood poutine vendor, Corner Burger, before traipsing to the Prospect Park Cinema for Date Night. But as we attempted to avail ourselves of public transportation to do so…first the bus we tried to get on defiantly sat at the 5th avenue stop while the driver waited for his replacement. Query: Why couldn’t the driver’s replacement meet him at the beginning of a route instead of 1/3 of the way through?
So then we walked down to catch the F train instead, and as we arrived in "Windsor Terrace," we saw an abandoned child’s ball just sitting, desolate, inside the turnstiles. Ominous.
Eventually we got settled in our seats in the tiiiiiny little theater (I’m pretty sure it dates back to the early talkies, plus or minus several 70s renovations involving plush seat covers). We picked out the best ones off the aisle, third row from the front, behind the seat that despite having no back, still appeared to the theater staff to be in need of a "Do not sit – Broken" sign. We leaned back (not like there were any other options because of the seat-back angles) and prepared to begin mocking the pre-show titles, when two women came to the end of our row and asked if they could slide past us. We stood, they slid, they sat. Then they realized they wanted snacks. We stood, they slid, we sat. Then their men friends showed up. We stood, they slid, we all sat. Uncomfortably close. Some of us had issues recognizing what was and what was not our armrest . Then they decided, with the menfriends votes predominating, that where they really wanted to be was the front row. We stood, wearily propping ourselves against the seat-backs, which now seemed to be at about a 70 degree angle from the floor. They slid. We all sat.
Then two more clowns showed up, but they at least had the sense to coordinate – one sat, the other went for snacks. Seatification was achieved with minimal annoyance.
I liked the movie – it was no Citizen Kane, nor even a 40-year-old Virgin, but I saw through the slapstick absurdity to the larger metaphorical comment being made about the human condition. Plus, right at this big climactic scene where all the Bad Guys were getting arrested, two uniformed gun-toting NYPD cops walked down the center aisle, peering intently into each row. It being a New York crowd, everyone burst out laughing. It was like something out of a Pee-wee Herman movie, and whatever bon mot followed Steve Carell and Tina Fey’s departure from a Manhattan rooftop by helicopter was lost in the giggles and general WTFery that ensued.
When K-Cup and I left the theater, there was still an ambulance and a bunch of cops in cars and on foot standing out front, and we could hear more sirens off in the distance. I wouldn’t hear about the Times Square Little Bomb That Couldn’t until we got home, but it was clear the police presence in the neighborhood was upped.
The weirdness intensified as we passed not one, not two, but five wadded up bundles of packing tape strewn randomly along various Park Slope sidewalks. Was someone moving and shredding tape as they went? Was a kidnappee escaping and untaping on the way? WTF was up with this tape?!
We began to wonder if we were on candid camera, if Punk’d was back and we were famous, if this was the Truman Show and one of us was about to age out….And then we walked past a carefully arranged chaise lounge and end table. On the sidewalk. Like you do.
It was one of those bizarre nights where everything is either really disturbing, really amusing or spatially disorienting. When I woke up to find that the squeal and crash I heard around 2 am had been a car smashing into the lightpost in front of my building and one of the eleventeen garages next door I was just like "Yeah, that’s about right."