Bad Santa - A snot-nosed fat kid kicks a midget elf in the balls. And it totally works. This brash Christmas film for adults is a long time coming, since National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation is getting really fucking tired.

School of Rock - Joan Cusack can do no wrong. And while Jack Black tends to grate on my nerves, in this he’s totally perfect. This movie reminded me so much of Girl’s Rock Camp that I was stupid happy and laughing the whole way through. This movie is a total joy. (My only complaint is that the girls didn’t get to rock as hard as the boys . They were relegated to non-soloing bass player and back-up singers.)

28 Days Later… - The VCB and I saw this on our first date. When we left the theatre I noticed my date was quite spooked. It was adorable when he told me he was sorta creeped out–I just wanted to pick him up and put him in my pocket. And he was right. The silvery quality and quick, visceral editing of this modern day zombie movie made for a freightening trip.

Winged Migration - A rare and beautiful piece of art on screen. It’s absolutely lovely. Check it: YOU GET TO FLY LIKE A BIRD. They have this camera that soars amongst flocks of migrating birds capturing glaciers and meadows and whale-filled oceans at the same speed and from the same perspective as high-flying fowl. So neat.

The Secret Lives of Dentists - I could have done without so much Denis Leary but the rest was awesome. Campbell Scott and Hope Davis (whom I have loved since Next Stop Wonderland) portray wounded and realistic characters who love and hurt and drag you with them.

Old School - Four words: Will Ferrel. Tranquilizer gun.

The Eye - This Chinese thriller is sort of two movies in one. The last half of the film is a bit trite and simplistic and too happy-ending for my tastes. But the bad second half is completely overshadowed by the first, which is THE SCARIEST FUCKING THING EVER. Men were screaming out loud in the theatre.

Willard - I was, seriously, the only person in the entire theatre for the 5:30 afternoon screening. And I shit you not, I my legs didn’t touch the floor for the duration of that brilliant movie. Crispin Glover owns all.

A Mighty Wind - Christopher Guest’s previous films all had me in stitches. This time he charmed me silly. (And, naturally, there was laughing.)

And the Really Shitty One:
Cremaster 3 - This pretentious, steaming pile of shit masquerading as experimental art/filmmaking almost makes me think Matthew Barney is fucking joking or something. He’s all: “Hey, ya’ll, watch this dude fill up an elevator with cement and then I’ll have some cars demolition each other to smoke and bits, but then! A lady cuts potatoes with her shoes!!” I found myself couting the number of lights in the aisle of the theatre before the “latte-friendly” intermission even, so I talked the VCB out of staying for the second half. Maybe some goat paints his shoes with mustard in the bit we didn’t stay for–I’ll never know. (That, actually, would rule.)

Darryl came in late because he worked late. He’s had the same job for 26 years, works second shift at the phone company. He made good money but was tied to his desk all day. He had to raise his hand if he wanted to take a piss. He talked to no one there because no one talked to him. He carried a strip of velvet in his pants pocket; he took it out sometimes and rubbbed it between the thumb and third finger of his right hand.

He ordered Long Island Teas mixed in frozen pint glasses. He drank them quickly and through a straw. Otherwise his frosted glass propped up his stubbly chin while he waited.

Always waited. Always waited for one of us to speak with him first. His eyelids and hairline and brow were eager for attention as you refilled the ice or turned his way to ring up a check. He always sat just behind the register where it was hard to hear him and difficult to reach his glass. He wanted to be seen. He would use the bathroom many times and whenever he wanted.

He only came in once every couple of weeks, but every time he did all he talked about was Karrin Allyson. Some jazz vocalist whom he absolutely adored. He would nod and rub his papery hands together when he whispered her name. Always whispering. Always requiring you to lean into him. Every time he came in I promised to find some of Karrin’s stuff, maybe on the internet. He really seemed to want me to. And every time I promptly forgot.

I asked Darryl what he did for Christmas just before January came. He told me that he did nothing again, just had some tacos and listened to Karrin. Immediately I recalled that his account of Thanksgiving was much the same. Except he had Burger King and watched some videos. I spotted that his icy glass was empty and was thankful for an easy way to slip out of a response. I wished I’d remembered he had no friends or family, I would have invited him over for dinner. Except I wouldn’t have. Because he stared right into your mouth when you spoke, his lips parted, his tongue visible and quivering and snake-like. He was always folding his papery hands.

One night at about 11, just before the managers locked up the front doors Darryl slipped in. He marched straight in and spoke without waiting. He shouted out my name. I turned and saw him in the lobby, hidden under a black slicker, his face wet from the onslaught of rain that fell just outside the doors. He held up a clear plastic baggie dotted with droplets of water. Inside it were two concert tickets. Karrin Allyson’s name was printed boldly in a squareish font on each.

“Did you listen to any of her songs yet?,” he spoke again. Again without waiting. My eyes fell to my broom as I shook my head no.

He slowly removed one ticket from the bag, wrapped it in the scrap of velvet. And when he handed it to me he held my hand in his for a few seconds. It felt nothing at all like paper. Then smiled and turned and dissolved into the storm.

We stopped chilling pint glasses a few months later.

Now I can’t get enough Karrin Allyson.