Chair about town

man about town a worldly man who spends much time in fashionable restaurants, clubs, etc. -Webster's

Faced with the reality of spending Saturday night actually reorganizing my comic book collection, I decided it best if I left the apartment. I was going to go out with a friend, but he napped until 10p.m. and couldn't do it. So my living room floor about that time was looking as if the cat had eaten every one of my comic books and then vomited them back up all over the floor. Sort of a beautiful sight, but it made the place crowded, cramped, and if I were to stay in, I'd have to put them all away in their new boxes ... in alphabetical order. And that would put me at just about the same status as the guys in the beginning of the "Fight for your right to party" video.

I didn't really want to leave the apartment, which is sometimes reason enough to do so. Earlier in the day I was reminded that in the holiday season, the phrase, "a quick trip to..." no longer exists. Crowds are everywhere. No parking at the library. 20 minutes to get a cup of coffee. 10 minutes to find a parking spot at Fred Meyer. For people like myself, who don't handle crowds well, this time of year the neurosis becomes hypersensitive. The idea of sitting at home with comics was beautiful. But a movie sounded nice too.

Going out alone, although not as glamorous as with others, is really just as enjoyable if not moreso. Like playing video games, or getting drunk, or having sex. Other people just make things complicated. I really wanted to see "Oceans 12," and I could still catch the last show playing downtown. Shit, I missed the MAX train by four minutes while I was finishing a beer. I had to get there on time or I'd miss the new "Batman Begins" trailer, half the reason I was going. A brisk walk later, I was at the theater a minute or two late. Still there was a line. Going to a show on a Saturday night downtown is like going to see a show inside of an Abercrombie catalog. A theater-full of skinny, lillywhite, beautiful young people, with couture not a day old. The couple in front of me looked like they had come directly from commercial shoots, but for radically different products. She was dressed a la Emma Peel - a tweed, brown, short dress, black high-heeled boots to the knee, black gloves and a black hat to match. He was wearing baggy basketball shorts, a red hoodie and a Sean John cap. How they were out together would have been totally inexplicable, were it not for the fact that they were both absolutely beautiful.

The Batman trailer didn't let down. I still have chills. The other previews, ugh. A Vin Diesel tough-guy-taking-care-of-children movie. A combination high school sports/inner-city educator movie with Sam Jackson. How dare Finnagain say TV sucks. This shit sucks. I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that I didn't love "Oceans 12" like I thought I would. I LOVED "Oceans 11." When I walked out of that theater in 2001, I thought I had possibly seen the perfect Hollywood movie. Glossy, tight, beautiful on all counts, funny. I've seen it several times since. So while I can appreciate how radically different "12" is, I just didn't like it as much. Soderbergh seemed to know how much leeway he had earned with the first, and used the second to showcase his more edgy filmmaking tricks. The movie was far less Oceans 11, and more like the plodding "Full Frontal," or even "K Street," the HBO series that intertwined fiction with political reality. The plot was so twisted and unimportant that it was more like a parody of the first than anything. Oh, and I will never understand Soderbergh's fascination with that bony, unattractive, self-important, shriveled-up bitch Julia Roberts. Still not a bad movie though. Funny as hell. Incredible music by David Holmes. Great acting. And Catherine Zeta-Jones with some big cans.

Speaking of that hyper-annoyance with crowds, my neighbors were six or so teens who bellowed laughter at parts that weren't funny. The three behind me were having a steady conversation throughout ("I don't get it." "You're not supposed to get it, that's the joke." "Oh. I'm totally confused.") I actually got up and moved, but the new people behind me kept talking. How, as a culture, have we not hammered out this no talking in movies thing? It's the simplest rule, and one that everyone benefits from. But it happens EVERY FUCKING TIME. I beg anyone who goes to movies with a talker, have a sit-down with them. You're just like the countries that harbor terrorists. You're just as guilty as the terrorists.

The walk home was great. About 1 a.m., people were sporadically hitting the streets to go home. Two guys were freestyle rapping. In Pioneer Square, the giant Christmas tree was lit, as were all other trees in the area. Portland during the winter can bring a tear to your eye, with the cold and the light rain and the blanket of haze at all times. I cut through the gay district because it's fun. Everyone checks out your shoes. People are making out in alleys. Glamorous drag queens are outside of bars on cell phones. Thumping bass, and lines to get in, even at 1:30 a.m. People have that look in their eyes, that last minute gotta find me some sex look. I had on a grey hooded sweatshirt, and imagined I looked like I was sneaking to or from some homosexual secret affair. But my eyebrows aren't very well-maintained, so I'm sure people weren't thinking that.

On a complete whim I assure you, I swung by my local adult store, also relatively crowded for the holidays and thereby making it all the more likely that I'd run into someone I know, a personal nightmare. Then I was just in time for last call at The Matador, also crowded. But this was the right kind of crowded. Dark, loud, drunk. Packed with people, like everywhere else, but still somehow very personal and private - The Anti-Crowd. Like that Billy Joel song about sharing the drink they call loneliness, but it's better than drinking alone. The lights went up and I finished my beer. Now I'm home and in another crowd, this one the best of all. A slamming party with a few thousand comic books and my cat.