Furry birthday, Finlay

July 22nd marked Finlay's first birthday. He celebrated by stuffing all three of his new purple chew toys into his mouth at once...a feat he relishes. His record to date is four.

Happy birthday, Mr. Fin. Here's to many more.

The Hangover hangup

Lori and I went to see The Hangover last night at the 8:10 show. Funny, albeit totally over the top, movie.

Walking out of the theater, both of us were flabbergasted to see a mother and her three kids walking out. Two boys, probably twelve and nine, and a girl who was maybe seven or eight.

I've witnessed children in movies that I thought were inappropriate for them before. Most of the time, it's infants in action flicks. My reaction is mainly that I think it has to be scary for a 10 month-old to hear the explosions and loud music. It usually results in that baby bursting into crying fits and the rest of the theater rubbernecking and silently cursing the parents for waiting so long before taking the baby out.

I've also witnessed plenty of teenagers sneaking into R-rated slasher films during my days working in movie theaters. You laugh it off as a rite of pubescent passage. In fact, I saw three probably 14 year-old boys skulking into The Hangover last night. You would've thought they were robbing a bank with all their feints and nervous cackling.

But to have kids of seven or eight years in The Hangover?! Are you kidding me?! And the youngest a girl? Maybe because I have two daughters, that shocks me even more. But if anyone who's seen that movie thinks it's appropriate for a seven year-old girl, I question your moral center (and/or your eyesight.)

So, let's try and give the mother the benefit of the doubt. Let's say the oldest kid was trying to pull a fast one and sold the movie off as something other than what it was. Or let's say they came to see Harry Potter only to find it sold out and she needed a quick backup plan...unwittingly going into The Hangover. Or let's say their house was tormented by poltergeists and they needed safe haven. No matter what scenario I concoct to rationalize those kids being there, they all fail to hold water. By the third f-bomb or reference to whores, bodily orifices, or any sex act you could imagine (most were in the movie), you'd think any decent mother would take their kids out. Not this woman.

By all visible standards, she looked like a nice enough lady. Well-dressed. Kids didn't look like trailer trash. No flies buzzing around them as they marveled at electricity or running water. Just normal, appropriate looking kids in a totally inappropriate movie.

We've all had moments in our lives when we've witnessed the questionable parenting skills of others. We've seen mothers being too rough with their bawling toddlers in the grocery store. We've seen fathers chewing out their sons too harshly at baseball practice. We've seen parents letting their kids run rampant in restaurants, breaking things and acting like little tyrants.

Personally, Lori and I have never been the kind to insert ourselves into these situations. Most people are the same way. You figure as long as the kids aren't in imminent danger or about to suffer bodily harm, it's better to turn the other cheek. But last night pushed us both to the brink.

I'm sure our aghast comments were clearly heard by the mother. The oldest son looked back at us as Lori and I uttered our dumbfounded remarks. Did I see guilt or embarrassment on his face? Maybe a little. I would've much preferred to see it on his mother's.

Out of the box office thinking

We saw the new Harry Potter movie at 11:40 today. A great film! But that's not the point here. I was amazed that we only paid $6 per ticket. It's been a while since we've gone to a movie before noon. Apparently, that's the last window of opportunity to get single-digit ticket prices.

When I was a teenager, matinee prices applied to any showing before 6pm. No longer, I guess. Lori and I were both commenting on our days back in Arizona when we vowed to never pay more than $10 for a movie ticket. I recall when ticket prices hit $5 while I was in high school and thinking it was a sure sign of the Apocalypse.

When you get down to it, there's really nothing fundamentally different about the medium to warrant such an exorbitant increase in prices. Clearly, the box office molestation stems from the salaries demanded by the actors, the unions all clamoring for their crumbs (gaffers of the world unite!) and the ascension of CGI. But at its core, moviemaking is still about telling a story. It begins and ends with an idea and a script.

So here's my idea. Allow only half-price tickets for remakes.

Why not? All the hard work's been done. We all know what's going to happen in them. Why should we pay top dollar to see rehashed ideas? With the rash of remakes that has plagued the world over the last few years, why not let financial incentive provoke new ideas and storylines? To spur creativity? Let top-dollar ticket prices be reserved solely for new ideas. (Put the whole "there are only seven original plots" argument aside for a moment...)

I know the Hollywood illuminati professes to be above the shallow cravings of capitalism, but I think revenues cut in half would work magic. Just like Adam Smith's invisible hand and Harry Potter's worthy wand.

Books are dead. Long live books.

Tonight I finally found a respectable used book store in Orange County. In the nearly 11 years since I've lived here, I haven't been able to locate one worthy of satisfying my used booklust. Admittedly, my search hasn't been exhaustive, but until tonight, the ones I have visited have paled in comparison to those I knew in Arizona.

I love the smell of books. If walking into a Barnes & Noble is like walking into a hospital nursery and inhaling the life-affirming scent of newborn skin, then walking into a used bookstore is kind of like entering your grandmother's closet. The fragrance of dust and decay permeates the air. Yet, it is a strangely familiar, comforting odor. I caught myself involuntarily smiling tonight as I walked through towering rows of aging books.

I like Borders as much as the next guy, but a good used bookstore is simply more honest. Genuine. No Millennials squatting wi-fi while they casually browse Manga between sips of latte. In a used bookstore, it's all about the books.

I speak often of the pivotal time my generation has witnessed. Particularly with regards to the Information Age. Generation X was born into a computer-less wilderness. We soon suckled at the digital tit of Atari and lost our binary virginity to TRS-80s and Commodore 64s. Now, we languish hedonistically among our smartphones, broadband and social networks, dreaming of convergent video and fluffy white cloud computing.

Meanwhile, the vestiges of the analog world continue to wither and die around us. I see it in my business as print shops, magazines and newspapers struggle for survival.

And now, Kindle and iPhone flames are licking at the bone-dry tinder that is the printed book. Our ravenous craving for mobility, fueled by eco-minded accelerant, is threatening to rapidly consume my beloved books. (Funny, kindle means to arouse or inspire. It also means to ignite or set on fire.)

So tonight I celebrate the used bookstore and the musty, mildewy glory that only aging paper can evoke. I feel the urge to hurry. To buy hardback versions of my favorite books and retire them safely to my home where they can live out their golden years in solace. Where I can turn from my bright, high contrast monitor to look lovingly upon their yellowing pages and know, soon enough, they'll be relics of another time.

I encourage you to go find a used bookstore and revel in its nobility. The experience is reminiscent of walking through a graveyard. But it offers the same tranquil opportunity to commune with those that came before us as we prepare to start our next chapter.