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PATRIOT GAMES
An interactive column
Many times have friends heard me remark, "I would rather spend three hours on an empty stomach and a full bladder staring at a blank movie screen than watch The Patriot." It is with heavy heart, then, that I must retract that statement.
Allow me to explain. Monday, to celebrate my birthday, my girlfriend Stephanie took me on a surprise trip to Atlantic City. We drove down on a community coach from the Jersey suburbs. That we were on a bus with people three times my age completely dispelled any angst I may have felt about turning 28 -- the midway point between Sweet Sixteen and Over The Hill.
There was a movie on that bus, and if you read the first paragraph closely, Dear Reader, you already know what movie it was. That's right: The Patriot, starring Mel Gibson.
So there we were, Stephanie and I and a busload of chattering Strom Thurmond coevals, with a three-hour trip and a rainy Monday morning staring us in the face. A three-hour trip, a rainy Monday morning, and a tiny TV screen that promised diversion.
What choice did we have? We sat back and watched the movie.
I'm forgetting the best part. The bus driver ("My name is Vincent, for those of you who don't know me."), just before hitting the play button, announced that the movie was longer than the journey to the shore; they would show the ending on the return trip.
But we were not returning on this bus. Which meant that we would not find out how the citizens of Mel Gibson's rustic South Carolinian town got out of the burning church, or how -- nay; if -- Mad Mel exacted revenge on the evil redcoat who killed his son. (If you know, Dear Reader, please enlighten me).
It struck me, as the name of the movie's despised star flashed across the screen, that what was happening on the bus was a microcosm of what was happening with the presidential election.
Consider: the slot-happy old biddies would doubtless have preferred a flick not involving decapitation via cannonball; Stephanie and I would have gone for something not involving Mel Gibson. But The Patriot was the least common denominator, so that's what the powers that be ran. Plus, it's now Wednesday afternoon, and I still have no idea how the damn thing ended.
Sound familiar?
In the spirit of electing people we don't like, I have decided to post LARGER EGO's first interactive column. I ask you, Dear Reader, to cast your vote for MALE BOX OFFICE STAR YOU HATE THE MOST. Following are the candidates:
By Greg Olear
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