Dear Diary,
Last Friday, Alamo Drafthouse was playing Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade as part of some Father’s Day promotion, so I convinced my buddy, Schicke, to come with me to see it on the big screen.
The first time I remember watching it was whenever the Robin Williams film, Aladdin, came out on VHS. When me and my sibs were done, we weren’t quite ready for bed but my folks were in the middle of some film they deemed inappropriate for us (I think it was Thelma and Louise), so they put on Harrison Ford machine gunning nazis for two hours. I think I was, like, 6 years old.
The movie starts off with Indie blowing up an entire tanker full of sailors, lol. I never realized how violent that movie was til I was watching it with someone whose people are villainized the entire runtime. I was a little retrospectively disappointed that the most practical, useful leading lady with the most interesting character development in the franchise got dropped in a deep, dark hole.
What was more disappointing, though, were the other patrons. Or, at least, the ones that flanked us. When we got there and ordered our food, those seats were devoid of other humans. And largely remained so right up til the film started. To the left of me was this hippy couple who exclaimed entire sentences throughout the film, such as, “Oh, snap, everyone’s gone!”, “Whoa-ho, that didn’t work out, did it?”, and my favorite, “Ooooh-hoo, getting jiggy with it!”
To Schicke’s right was this little hobbit fella who immediately took his shoes off. He was still wearing a gas station uniform and this was almost 8pm. I could smell his feet from the other side of Schicke, who clutched my arm and whispered her dissatisfaction, discreetly, I felt so bad and wondered if it was appropriate to ask the folks who work there to ask that guy to put his shoes back on. Goddamn.
I’m grateful we ordered our appetizer and ate before Lord Stinkfoot showed up but, obviously, we didn’t order any more food. We just helplessly remained hostage, inhaling this fella’s sweaty work smell til the credits rolled.
I enjoyed watching Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade on the big screen. I’ve always had an affinity for that film. Sean Connery’s first line, “Junior?!”, I can never hear in my head without also thinking of my mom’s impression. I was supposed to be a boy and my dad was gonna name me after him. So, instead of William Odessa Stern II, I was designated Wilma. That didn’t stop everyone in my family from calling me “Junior” most of my life. Usually with an uninspired but still unmistakably Sean Connery brogue.
Speaking of which, my dad came over this morning and I gave him his Father’s Day gift; an airbrushed caricature of him driving his corvette over the state of Missouri. As soon as he got here, he got a text from his son-in-law informing my dad that he accidentally drove a backhoe in to a ditch he was supposed to be filling in. So, it wasn’t a long visit. But that’s probably okay.
Here's to Henry Jones Sr, My dad, and the other father’s out there enduring complicated relationships with their kids!
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