Put down the knitting, the book and the broom...

If you had asked me before last night when the last time I saw a movie in the theater was, I don’t think I could have given you an answer. The last one I know I saw was Sweeney Todd, but there may have been another one in there, if it was unremarkable enough. Assuming it was Sweeney, I looked it up on Wikipedia, and that movie was released on December 21^st, 2007. Even if I saw it later on in its theatrical run, that’s still over a year and a half since I’d been to a movie theater. I knew it had been a while, but eighteen months surprised even me.

There are three main reasons we hadn’t been out to see a movie in ages, and they all make us sound like old fuddy-duddies. They are a) that I’m cheap, b) that I don’t think most modern movies are any good, and c) that we can watch lots of movies at home. To clarify those points, we do stick to a monthly budget, but it could absolutely include movies if they were higher on out priority list. As it is we prefer to spend money dining out, camping, visiting family, etc.

As for the other two points, I personally am a huge fan of classic movies, which makes for a somewhat unfair barometer. Is Transformers’ amalgam of CGI overkill and clichéd teen angst going to compare to the haunting story and brilliant acting of Casablanca? Of course not, and no one would expect it to. But I can watch the classics at home on TCM, so why spend nine bucks a person to watch the new stuff? And even if I do want to see something new, my satellite company is always doing free HBO previews which we record and watch later.

So, what was it that made us give up our miserly ways and go out into the world of the living (kidding, mostly)? Harry Potter, naturally. My wife got hooked on the books shortly after the first one came out, and the stories drew her in to the point that she has all the books, needs to see all the films, and tries quite hard to get me to love the franchise as much as she does. It may be working, albeit gradually. When Harry Potter first burst onto the scene, I hated almost everything about it. Now, although I wouldn’t call myself a fan, I do enjoy the movies and tried the first book in the series. In short, Harry Potter movies are a bit like the Edgewood Rodeo: you can try to fight it if you want, but you know you’re going anyway.

With that settled, it was time to pick a theater. We live almost literally across the street from the biggest and most popular multiplex in the Des Moines metro, but it’s also the most expensive. Our other favorite theater had rescinded its bring-your-own-bucket-and-get-it-filled-with-popcorn-for-50-cents night, so that was out. Then my wife discovered the hidden gem that is the Merle Hay Cinema. The largest non-IMAX screen in the state of Iowa, in an auditorium with seats for 775, and with a deal where $4.50 got you a ticket and a small popcorn. Add in the fact that it would be a new place to explore, and it was a no-brainer.

It ended up being a pretty great time. The theater was impressive, though not terribly stylish. But the screen was about as big as I could imagine one being without requiring you to crane your neck to follow the action. Action which became much more awesome on the giant screen. Riding along with the bad dudes as they flew around London smashing things was experienced in a way I imagine would be hard to replicate on the 26 inch screen at home. And the movie itself was good: dark enough to be interesting, funny enough to make me literally LOL a few times (“All hands on deck, Granger!”), and not so long that it made my butt hurt. I walked out wondering why we didn’t do this more often.

We used to go to the movies all the time, back in college. The summer between my sophomore and junior years, there was an event in Campustown, with a drawing at the local art house theater. I folded my entry with my signature winning fold, and ended up the proud owner of one year’s worth of free passes to movies at that theater! We’d been to the Varsity Theater a few times before for various independent films that struck our fancy, but the stack of passes I received meant we could watch anything, whether it looked good or not.

And that’s essentially what we did. There were a few weeks where the old movies were held over so there was nothing new, and there were a few weeks where we actually went to a couple of the offerings. But mostly it meant that every week we’d tear off a pair of passes and sit through two hours of free entertainment. Some of the movies were great, a lot were terrible, and some of them were even shown just for the two of us. It was a fun weekly pastime and by the end of the year, the few employees who ran the place knew us on sight.

In a sense, we were lousy people to win the prize, though, because we never bought snacks there and only bought a drink one time. After the prize period was over, we went back occasionally, but nowhere near as often as we had. At the time, we were “broke college students” and really couldn’t afford to go too often, but I’ll admit that we were being a little cheap too. Then just this year there was a story on the local news that the theater had shut down, presumably due to lack of sales.

It was actually pretty sad, since it had become a place we had grown to know and like, a place with character. The two auditoriums were a little dilapidated, and it probably wasn’t THX sound, but it was a place where we’d created lots of memories and now it is gone. I don’t think that our lack of support was responsible, especially now that we’ve moved away, but I still feel a twinge of guilt when I think about it. Unfortunately there’s nothing we can do about it now. But we can do our best to prevent it from happening here. The Merle Hay theater is unique, and though it isn’t home to any old memories, it can be a place to form new ones. And for only $4.50 a person, I think I can even get my cheap self to go for that.

My January Friend

Friday began with me waking up at my condo in West Des Moines. By 2 o’clock, I had journeyed to my family’s home in Elgin, Illinois, over 300 miles away. And as night fell over the towering pine trees, I looked around and saw that I was in a State Park near Oregon, Illinois, about to get some sleep in a tiny tent. I took a deep breath of the air scented with campfire and pine needles and sighed contentedly. It had been a long day, and would continue to be a long weekend, but it was totally worth it. Whatever time I had spent in planning or traveling was entirely justified by the abundant peace and happiness.

My younger brother’s birthday is in January, which is a little bit difficult. So many birthday outings and experiences are typically held in the summertime, from amusement parks and waterparks to picnics to simply getting outside and grilling or playing around. For a January birthday, you can either wait half the year and celebrate belatedly, or just content yourself with indoor activities. That’s been the way we’ve celebrated his birthday for decades, from the summer trips to Santa’s Village theme park to wintertime lazer tag events. This year, I decided my gift to him would be a summertime event, just for the two of us. I chose a camping trip.

Now, granted, this isn’t a whole lot different in concept than the belated amusement park trips, in that we had to wait six months after the actual birthday to celebrate, but it was unique in that it was a single-person experience given as a gift. For as long as I can remember, I’ve given items for birthdays, but when I think back, I find myself more fond of experiences I’ve had than things I’ve owned, so I wanted to give that. And additionally, it was a chance for the two of us to bond a little bit again. My brother and I shared a bedroom for many years when we were growing up, and we’d spend hours lying in our beds, just talking about things, late into the night. Since I moved away to college, we’ve still been close, but we haven’t really had that together time we used to share every night.

After a great deal of research, I chose White Pines State Park, in Northwest Illinois, as our destination. With the car all packed and after hugs from the rest of the family, we set off on an hour-and-a-half car ride, chatting amiably as we went. Arriving at the park, we encountered our first obstacle of the weekend: the ford. I had been vaguely aware going in that White Pines featured fords as river crossings, where the water was directed over the roadway in a shallow enough manner that a car could just drive through, Oregon Trail-style. Fair enough in concept, until we approached and saw the scale of the thing. The water seemed to be rushing quickly over the concrete, and sure looked more than a few inches deep. How do you tackle such an obstacle? Fast? Slow? I sure didn’t know, so we decided it pretty quickly. Splashing through the water, a sudden adrenaline moment where it felt like the wheels were slipping, and finally we were through. Whew.

Setting up the campsite was pretty straightforward. We found the perfect spot, a grassy opening with a small hillside in the shade of the pines on which you could just fit a small tent. Being experienced with my own tent, we had it pitched in a matter of minutes. By this time, the sky was beginning to darken, and our stomachs were growling. Time to start a campfire and start cooking. Only one problem: I’d never started a fire by myself before. Sure, I’d been present for it, and knew the general concept, but I had zero experience. And I didn’t want to use any chemicals like lighter fluid.

We walked the area around our campsite looking for sticks to start with. I assembled those into a square pattern that narrowed as it grew, almost like an Aztec pyramid, and stuffed the inside with newspaper. Then the purchased firewood around the outside. Light a match, toss it in, and voila! It lights! Or at least the newspaper does. Then the newspaper burns up, catches some of the sticks on fire, but there is almost no effect on the big logs. We quickly crumple more newspapers and throw on more sticks, but still the larger pieces appear unaffected. Soon, we’re both blowing on the weak little fire we do have, hoping to fuel it with more oxygen. We need this fire, because I’m not planning to eat raw salmon for dinner.

Things still aren’t looking great, so we decide to throw an older piece of wood from the car’s trunk onto the fire, and suddenly we have some fire. Rushing now to actually get things cooking, we throw the grill and the salmon foil pouches on, ignoring the fingers of flame reaching all the way up around the pouches themselves. With no idea how long they need to cook for, we take a wild guess at it, and pull them off to find the salmon perfectly cooked. Somehow, with no idea how to make a fire and with raw fish in the equation, we’ve managed to pull it off and have a delicious dinner.

Later that night, it’s time to rekindle the fire for s’more’s, an absolute requirement my brother insisted on. With the experience of the first fire in mind and with hot, slightly charred logs, we succeed easier this time, and before we know it, we’re sitting around a blazing fire with marshmallows in the fire. With gooey marshmallow guts all over our fingers, we pause to laugh at the trials of earlier in the day. The concerns of starting the fire have melted away like so much s’more chocolate and we are able to truly enjoy the camping trip. After a long day’s worth of driving across the Midwest, and sharing the experiences of fire building and cooking over the fire, conversation comes easily now. We talk and laugh like we did when we were kids.

The night air fills with all the essence of camping. The piney air is thick with pleasant campfire smoke, and nocturnal creatures make their mysterious calls. The fire crackles at the logs, turning to a sudden phoom! as a marshmallow accidentally catches fire. And long after the fires are out and total darkness has descended on the world, the sounds of two brothers whispering together can still be heard.

It's the Ropes and the Reins, the Joy and the Pain

Happy Fourth of July to everyone! After spending a week in Washington, DC, I think I appreciate it a little better than I used to, but it’s still not too high up on my hierarchy of holidays. First, there’s the weather. Summer is my absolute least favorite time of the year here in the Midwest, with temperatures in the 90s and humidity so high that your clothes stick to you the instant you set foot outside. I know some people love this time of year, but it definitely isn’t for me.

Then there are the activities associated with the Fourth. To be sure, I’m happy to celebrate the anniversary of the birth of the country, and it’s worthwhile to reflect on the actions and sacrifices of the Founding Fathers and those that came after them, but I just don’t really enjoy how we recognize them. I liked my first few parades, but they all kind of seem the same these days. And fireworks shows are neat, but I tend to find myself bored halfway through, wishing they would hurry to get to the grand finale.

So, I spent most of the weekend here at home relaxing. We did a little cleaning to be productive, but spent a lot of the time watching movies, cooking meals and going for evening walks. It was a really nice way to pass three days, especially given how busy we have been the past few weeks. Two weeks ago we spent the entire weekend at the Iowa Corn Indy 250, either at the track, in the parking lot, or snared in traffic headed in or out. And last week, we found ourselves back in Edgewood for Rodeo Days.

Something called Rodeo Days probably sounds a bit out of character for me, a kid from Chicagoland suburbia. Back home, the closest I’d ever gotten to a rodeo was a place called Donnelly’s Wild West Town, which was an old west cowboy themed amusement park. As far as I knew, there was no such thing as a real cowboy anymore, and I didn’t find myself particularly interested to see if I was right. The concept of a rodeo seemed outdated and more than a little inhumane, so I couldn’t picture myself ever going to one.

Then while I was in college, I met my wife-to-be, the former Miss Edgewood and someone who couldn’t remember missing an Edgewood rodeo in her lifetime. That first summer, I remember putting up a little fight, saying I didn’t really care to go, and that our car probably couldn’t be counted on to make it 200 miles anyway. Apparently I was less than convincing; because the day before the rodeo, my wife had a new cowgirl-themed outfit and we were on the road in a rental car. That was six years ago.

By the time Rodeo Days came around this year, I didn’t bother trying to protest. I don’t think I’d call myself a fan per se, but I’ve grown to appreciate the skills required for the different events, and it’s an interesting way to experience the small town Iowa culture. So I enjoy some of the events and hold my tongue when I feel bad for the animals. I’ve heard several times that they are well cared for, and I doubt that cows are as fragile as I might imagine they are as they’re being wrestled to the dirt.

If perchance the quadrupeds do feel mistreated, they get the last laugh at the final event of the rodeo, a scene so implausibly crazy that it’s hard to believe it’s happening, even as you look on in a mixture of excitement, horror and insane glee. It’s the car crash you can’t help but stare at as you drive by, the slasher film that grips you in your seat as the protagonist steps closer to the hidden psycho, and the last second hail-mary pass that seems to fall in slow motion as time expires in a nail-biter of a football game. It’s called, simply enough, Money the Hard Way.

Just in case you’ve never been to Edgewood for Rodeo Days, the premise behind Money the Hard Way is relatively straightforward. A tag is tied between the horns of one of the rodeo bulls, the grunting, glowering ton of muscle and irritability that routinely bucks trained cowboys off in less than eight seconds. Then a command is given by the PA announcer and hordes of men descend from the grandstands, over the fence and into the arena. The bull is released, and the dozens of spectators turned participants grab for the tag. The grand prize for clutching the tag at the end of the mayhem: a mere $100. I can’t begin to imagine what motivates someone to enter this event, but I imagine it involves copious amounts of alcohol and some ironclad waivers on the part of the promoters.

This year, as the sun set over the western chutes and the brilliant overhead lights cast their beams through the dust suspended in the air, the excitement moving through the crowd was palpable. We’d just witnessed bullriding, the typical highlight of an ordinary rodeo, but tonight was Saturday night, so we all knew one more show was about to be put on. The announcement came over the intercom calling the brave (stupid?) into the ring. And just to make things a little more intense, it was declared that this year would feature two bulls, each bearing a $100 tag and each perhaps a little more ticked off than the other.

I don’t know how long it took for the two tags to be grabbed, since I stood in rapt fascination, awe, and shock, watching human beings fly farther than I ever thought they could. No one sustained any serious injury, and two people were about to buy rounds in the small town’s two bars. The crowd let out a collective sigh of relief, and I shook my head bemusedly. A decade ago, who would have believed that I would be here, sharing this bizarre moment with 4000 cheering rodeo fans? It sure is interesting where life takes us. Had I not met my wife in college, it’s an experience I never would have had. And though I may not love the rodeo itself, I do cherish the fact that I’ve experienced something so different, so outside my usual comfort zone.

The rodeo ended up being the week before Independence Day, but in a way I think it was a more fitting way to celebrate than to endure another sterile parade and fireworks display. What better captures the essence of the USA than the cowboy, our history of Western expansion and colonization? And what better way to celebrate the life of our nation than to live a weekend in a small town, broadening your horizons and sharing a new experience with fellow Americans of all walks of life? Love it or hate it, there was a lot about the Edgewood Rodeo that really was the spirit of America, a strange and fitting tribute to a strange and unique country.