Front Row Seats to The Jerk.

On the crowded city bus, it's that woman who puts her backpack in the seat next to her, forcing the elderly lady to stand in the aisle.

In the locker room, it's the dude who leaves his toenail clippings scattered on the floor, lying in wait to pierce the fascia of the nude and the innocent.

And in the home, it is the teenager who leaves an empty goldfish carton in the cabinet, dashing the hopes the man who gave her life and now craves the savory pleasures of cheddary goodness.

Look, I know I can be rude sometimes; we all can, right? Sure, I've taken a more than my share of tater tot casserole at the neighborhood potluck. I've even booed the Oregon football squad, a crew of scholar athletes as undeserving of my boorish tactics as they are of being labeled scholar athletes. 

But hey, I do try to keep the karma meter north of neutral, you know?

It happened again on Sunday. My wife and I, both high priests in the Cult of Katniss, ventured downtown to see Catching Fire, part two of the Hunger Games trilogy. The movies and books are thickly layered with themes, from the virtues of loyalty and compassion to the dystopian evils of unbridled power and control. Throw in a little of the Cinerama Theatre's signature chocolate popcorn, and you've guaranteed yourself a Utopian gut ache for the next two plus hours.

We arrived early. Now that I'm closer to a being a toothless centurion than a toothless newborn, my patience has shriveled right alongside the old T level.. Whenever we're late and looking for a place to park, my wife can sniff one out like a freaking bloodhound. Problems invariably arise, however. Most of her recommendations require either darting sideways across four lanes of traffic or the ability to hover and drop. 

No luck. That's a feature on the 2007 Hyundai and we've got a 2006.

Anyway, we got to the theater early and found a great spot to watch my girlfriend shoot arrows and make out with Peeta. We sat behind a railing which separated our tier from another section in front of us. Separated by a walkway, the space between held combinations of free-standing seats so wheelchair-bound folks could sit with their friends. 

A large group of people came in and sat dead center, just in front of a pair of the handicapped seats. Two from the group, a middle-aged couple, noticed the pair of special chairs behind them, climbed over the railing and nestled right on in. 

One of their friends turned around. "You guys, I think those are for handicapped people."

"Oh well," said the guy. He looked at his wife. "You had surgery a while back, so we're good."

"Did you see that?" said my wife. "Come on. What if someone needs to sit there?"

It didn't take long to find out. About five minutes later, another middle-aged couple entered the theater, the woman wearing a surgical boot and hobbling on crutches. Her partner walked over and, nodding toward his wife, politely asked the couple if they'd mind letting them use the seats, since she needed a place to put her crutches and spread out a little.

"No, we need these, " replied the man I'll go ahead and call Ass Bastard. "My wife just had surgery." 

My wife and I looked at each other. Since we had nothing better to do, we'd been watching Mrs. Ass Bastard get up a couple of times, once returning with popcorn. Meanwhile, the other couple sat in single chairs, about ten feet apart from each other. The infirm woman's fury was palpable as she attempted to penetrate the Ass Bastard force field with her laser stares, but to no avail.

Many around us noticed the spectacle. A few patrons even photographed the Bastards, ostensibly to humiliate them via social media. 

The room darkened and the movie started, but I could tell my wife was still slow burning about the jerks in the handicapped seats. All it took to distract my monkey brain was Jennifer Lawrence's awesome three-story face beamed across the Cinerama big screen. 

Two hours later, the credits rolling, I noticed my wife wasn't making any packing-up-type gestures. "Hey, let's go," I said, wanting to beat the crowd to the restroom because I'm old and ridiculous.

"I'll meet you in the lobby," she replied.

"Okay."

I expected to find her waiting for me downstairs, but she wasn't around. My phone buzzed. "Hey," she said. I'm in the bathroom. I had to say something to those people, so meet me by the door."

"Shit. What did you say?" I asked. 

"Just meet me by the door."

My wife is a highly moral individual, plus she's Italian. It's a lethal combination when she witnesses injustice. I've seen her do everything from buying coffee and sandwiches for panhandlers to offering a hotel room for to a homeless woman and her daughter. I should have known that was why she hung back.

She finally appeared and we scurried out of the lobby like a couple of Denny's dine and dashers. 

"What'd you say to them?" I asked, as we walked into the chilly afternoon.

"I just leaned over, looked at each of them and said, "You should both be ashamed of yourselves."

"Oh, that's not too bad. Did they say anything?" 

"Well," she said, "I heard the guy say 'Excuse me?' but I was already walking away…to the bathroom."

"Why? Did you think he was going to punch you or something?"

"I just didn't want to get caught next to them when the crowd backed up in the lobby," she said. "Talk about awkward. I made my point."

Indeed. It's always a slippery slope to accuse someone of being a deadbeat. We can all be a little too quick to judge whether someone's disabilities warrant special treatment or not. 

But when you get a front row seat to that kind of behavior, you have to either speak up or have a spouse who does it for both of you.

Hollywood Makes Noah's Ark: The Original Love Boat.

It's really too bad this movie isn't coming out in time to battle that annual bloodbath, the war on Christmas. Some really huge oars could come in super handy in spanking back the secular happy holiday heathens. Better late than never, I suppose.

The official trailer of "Noah" was released Thursday. Here, have a look see:

Could Hollywood have picked a more rugged, yet virtuous, yet foxy slab of fillet manyon to portray the six-hundred-year-old dry land seafarer than Russell Crowe?

No way. The guy barely looks 480, which apparently back then was the new 350. Plus, the dude had three kids after age 500, and this is way prior to the nurturing palm of four-hour pharma.

And Anthony Hopkins as Methuselah? Brilliant. In this flick, he wields his evil freely; no need to slurp his human sweetbreads and Chianti through this oppressive apparatus:

According to Genesis, Chapter 5, here's how the whole thing started:

The Lord saw how great the wickedness of the human race had become on the earth, and that every inclination of the thoughts of the human heart was only evil all the time. The Lord regretted that he had made human beings on the earth, and his heart was deeply troubled. So the Lord said, “I will wipe from the face of the earth the human race I have created—and with them the animals, the birds and the creatures that move along the ground—for I regret that I have made them.” But Noah found favor in the eyes of the Lord.

Until I read this, I hadn't realized that God actually experienced buyer's remorse twice. The first time, Adam and Eve had barely exchanged phone numbers before she screwed everything up with what became known in Eden as "The Dangling Nectarine Affair." I know, right? Freaking women. I could be sipping a mojito, naked by the pool, if it weren't for that ditzy skirt.

Leave it to a man, Noah, to cut our losses and gain a smidge of political capital with the big guy. If it weren't for this righteous bro, we wouldn't have been allowed to continue our suffering for millennia to come. Please find a time in your busy day to thank our man, Noah.

Will the mega studios tackle any other of antiquity's historical events? I hope so. They've already nailed The Ten Commandments, employing every aspiring Caucasian actor in the process while perfecting the art of spray bottle bronzing. For Hollywood's followup, Chuck Heston, after being offered the role of John the Baptist, told director Goerge Stevens, "Goddammit, George! I'm freaking Moses! If I'm not cast as JC, this script better be the greatest f*cking story ever told." 

The rest is history, except for the "f" word. The Greatest Story Ever Told, released in 1965, was nominated for five Oscars, propelled to greatness by Pat Boone's riveting performance as a celestial being at Jesus' tomb. Just call him angel…of the hairpiece, angel.

A dark side exists, however, to these Hollywood sagas of real men executing God's blueprints. Naturally, anytime these amoral liberals get their fingers in the money pie, they'll pursue the booty at all costs. We, as the pious messengers of the word, must remain ever vigilant in rejecting the snake oil of blasphemy.

I hold aloft the robust souls who risked public scorn to speak out against the popular Harry Potter series as blasphemous drivel. What an abomination it is to pollute our children with stories of other children who selflessly defend their families and friends against the dark lord.

It's a twisted message they send, and I truly hope Daniel Radcliffe and Emma Watson enjoy the worldly goods they've accumulated on this big blue marble, since they don't allow carry-ons on Hell Airways.

What's that you say? Emma Watson is also in Noah's Ark, playing the role of Noah's adopted daughter Ila?

God bless her. She's obviously repented.

Royal lineage: A story of two heirs.

It wasn't a typical double date.

Each couple converged in the multiplex lobby following the synchronized finishes of their preferred movies. One pair decided to screen "The King's Speech" prior to the Oscar deadline, while the other duo opted for the slightly lighter "Never Say Never," the story of Justin Bieber and his unlikely rocket launch to stardom.

I should probably elaborate at this point. My wife and I attended the mature-themed film, and my daughters did Bieber, umm...so to speak.

After we met up, we each were quite satisfied with our respective choices, and were eager to talk about what we'd seen. Even though the subject matter and historical time frame differed significantly, the two movies dealt with a couple of guys who were strewn into extraordinary situations and compelled to make good under extreme pressure.

Granted, Justin Bieber isn't a bona fide monarch...or is he? If we traced his non-familial teenage heartthrob lineage, we could probably begin with the original American idol: Frank Sinatra. Arguably from there, the crown might be traced to Fabian and Paul Anka, and on to Frankie Avalon, Davey Jones, David Cassidy, Leif Garrett, Shaun Cassidy and Rick Springfield. Okay, let's do a quick tally. Caucasian bubblegum boy stars, 10, every other ethnicity, Zero.

During the mid-eighties, the industry giants must have decided that a boy band was at least four times as good as a single star, so the pre-fab ensembles took over, like New Kids Under the Block and N' Sync. Crooked boy band architects like Lou Pearlman came up with the formula for success: Half of the group would have talent, and the rest would rock intricate facial hair carvings.

But then, it was back to the future, as guys like Jesse McCartney, Zac Effron and any other solo acts who looked good in Mickey Mouse ears seized the reins back for the cause of the lone wolf.

Enter Mr. Bieber.

I'm not going to retrace the lineage of the British monarchy, but prior to King George VI, played by Colin Firth in "The King's Speech," the head royal wasn't expected to publicly address his subjects. The introduction of the newfangled "wireless" technology rewrote that rule as he ascended to power; his people were no longer satisfied with someone who simply looked good in a uniform while cutting a ribbon, they wanted to hear what he had to say.
Oh, yeah, and the new king possessed a debilitating stammering problem.

Have you ever spoken publicly, like at a wedding or a work meeting? It's difficult, especially when you're attempting to convince or inspire people. You feel nervous, sometimes nauseous. But what if you're expected to do as such, even though you can barely string four words together, and an entire nation's confidence in your abilities as king rests on a single address?

Adult diapers? Aisle 18b.

Years ago, my manager suggested that, since I got so anxious speaking in public settings, that I join the local Toastmasters club. It was a great experience and trained me to hold my own without quivering like aspic-covered ham while speaking to a large group.

I won't elaborate too extensively on the time back in 1989 when I entered district "table topics" competition. I had won the club and area contests, so I was feeling a bit cocky with my abilities. The winner got a really cool trophy, which I suppose would've looked nice next to my framed letterman's jacket.

Oh, but there would be no trophy for a shallow pond that day.

A speaker of table topics must face the audience and receive a small piece of paper containing a subject from the Toastmaster. The contestant must then speak extemporaneously on the subject for one minute, with five seconds allowed for mental preparation. My topic that day was "What kind of vegetable would you be?"

My first thought, which I know is sick, was of famous people who have been vegetables, but I could think of none. I locked up completely and babbled incoherently for an entire minute, and actually did list a lot of vegetables. I'm sure that impressed my first grade teacher when we did that farm unit, but the audience looked like I was inserting needles into their shins

After an inappropriate cucumber comment, the longest minute of my life was over.

So, to Justin Bieber, you beat the odds, you didn't mess up when it was time to lay it all on the line, and, even though I'm a little bitter about that, I admire such traits in your rich, little, non-threatening, sixteen-year-old self.

To King George VI, even though you are dead, you beat the odds, you didn't mess up when it was time to go for broke, and the man who played you will probably get a trophy, which I didn't at that Toastmasters thing.

Yes, I'm a little bitter about that, too.

Jaws vs. Eclipse: That's a lot of teeth

It's been a momentous past week in the world of American cinema, for two big reasons.

First, as every female between fourteen and sixteen knows, the third installment of the piercing Twilight series, Eclipse, debuted Tuesday night. Maybe I'm just jealous of Jacob's ten-pack, or maybe Edward's immortality chaps my hide, but I just don't grasp the allure of these movies.

And don't kid yourself; they aren't just movies—they're a massive-multi-million-mixed-media-and-merchandise-mega-marketing....franchise (Sorry, I couldn't come up with another "m" word.).

As we older folks know, the Hollywood blockbuster isn't anything new, which brings me to the next reason that it's a big week in film industry lore: Thirty-five years ago this month, Jaws chawed its way into our collective zeitgeist.

From June of 1975 onward, sprinting into the ocean's welcome foaminess has lost just a skosh of its luster. If you really want to freak out your swimming partner, just act like one of your legs is being tugged on while treading water about forty yards out.

This film took America by storm. Who can forget the T-shirts:

The board game:

Or the highly disturbing action figure diorama:

But the true symbol that Jaws had hit the celluloid stratosphere was its Mad Magazine cover spoof:

Just to get a little context, Jaws earned the distinction as the number one top-grossing movie of 1975. Here are the remaining four of the top five earners from that year:

5) Shampoo—I never saw this one, but I sure wanted to, being a thirteen-year-old dude and all. I'm fairly certain that any movie in which Warren Beatty participated during this era had at least one naked woman.

4) Dog Day Afternoon—This is the story of a guy who robs a bank to pay for his partner's sex change operation. I'm surprised that such an unoriginal movie did so well. Lordy.

3) One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest—My all-time favorite movie. Seriously, this film was deeper than the menu at Cheesecake Factory.

2) The Rocky Horror Picture Show—Wow, three classics in one year. I'd almost forgotten why I started wearing garters.

So for all of you werewolf worshipers and vampire votarients, we'll see if your heartthrobs stand the test of time. And remember...don't go in the water with that open sore on your foot.

Rest in peace, Dennis Hopper

Dennis Hopper has died.

What is it about the quirky, weird guy in a movie that draws us to him? And maybe you aren't drawn to him, but I sure am.

Who can forget Hopper's character, Frank, in the cult classic, Blue Velvet? He was a whole lot of disturbed in that movie, yet who hasn't, deep down in our subconscious, desired to play such an insidious villain in a play or a film? Again, maybe you haven't... but I have.

In my opinion, we can all benefit from exploring our dark side, even if momentarily, just to acquire an opportunity to introduce our Yins to our Yangs. How much fun do you think Susan Lucci has had over forty years of playing the devious Erica Kane, on the daytime drama, All My Children? Do you think Kathy Bates didn't enjoy playing the sadistic Annie Wilkes in Misery, or that Marlon Brando didn't get off a little bit by immersing himself in the character of Colonel Walter E. Kurtz in Apocalypse Now?

Granted, it's probably not advisable to take up permanent residence in that "other side of the tracks" of our personalities. Our kids and spouses might not like us very much.

At least, however, these talented thespians have been granted an opportunity to get some dark crud out of their systems, whereas a lot of famous people have taken the fall by playing up to the straight and narrow so vehemently, they've gotten themselves into trouble by pursuing more covert methods of discovering the other side.

Many of the fallen have come from the clergy. The reverends Jim Bakker, Jimmy Swaggart and Ted Haggard are a few who come to mind as people who just couldn't resist a little bit of "experimentation." And more recently, George Rekers, a high profile board member on the Family Research Council, was forced to resign amid revelations that he hired a twenty-year-old male escort from Rent-a-boy.com to accompany him on a two-week trip through Europe.

Mr. Rekers was previously an outspoken anti-gay adoption spokesman in Florida, a state which does not allow gay couples to adopt.

I guess what I'm saying, in quite a roundabout way, is that it's fairly difficult to try to live our lives as if we know what's best in all circumstances. It's okay to acknowledge our dark sides, to show them the light of day. Otherwise, they tend to surface in some ugly fashions. We've got both, so let's just admit it.

Dennis Hopper, I hope you made peace with your dark side. God speed.

The lurking menace in American cinema

I love movies. Who doesn't?

It doesn't matter the genre—comedy, drama, suspense, mystery, even the infamous "chick flick." Come on, guys, tell me you didn't well up a little when Richard Gere whisked Deborah Winger out of her dead-end factory job and into her dream life in An Officer and a Gentleman?

Okay, that's a bad example. Richard Gere makes me break out in weird places. How about, then, in Jerry Maguire, when Tom Cruise laid himself bare and confessed to Renee Zellweger, "You complete me"? Sorry, another bad example. Doctor Evil did it better, and Tom Cruise is Satan's spawn.

Anyway, I'm sure that we men have enjoyed an estrogen-laced movie or two over the years; I just can't think of one now. One other genre I really enjoy is the foreign film. The challenge when viewing a non-English-language movie is following the action while reading the subtitles. And forget about eating something off a plate during this activity. You could conceivably miss the line of the movie as you stab a forkfull of Swanson's Hungry Man Salisbury Steak into your face.

I've always admired whomever it is that translates foreign dialogue into English, and is able to capture the nuances of each language to portray the spirit of the film's dialogue. This is a skill that can't be overrated. Imagine if a less adept translator attempted to interpret some of the more famous American movie lines for subtitles in another language.

For instance, in the movie, Dirty Dancing, the line, "No one puts Baby in a corner" runs the risk of morphing into "There isn't an individual person who places an infant at the perpendicular union of two walls." See what I mean? This is a valuable service.

How about when Clint Eastwood's character, Dirty Harry, blurts out the famous "Go ahead. Make my day," as he burrows his 44 Magnum into the face of a bad guy? There's always the risk that the subtitle in, say Swedish, would be, "Please proceed to construct my hours of sunlight." You see what I'm saying? All of these profound lines compromised into oblivion. "I can't quit you," from Brokeback Mountain could somehow land on, "I find myself unable to resign my membership in you."

One phrase I can think of that probably wouldn't be butchered is Leonardo Dicaprio's proclamation in Titanic, "I'm king of the world!" Pretty straight forward, but stupid in any language.

I'm sure we can think of a plethora of other screenplay moments which could suffer in translation, but let's just hope someone watching a feature film in, maybe, Indonesia, doesn't see the buff, shirtless, secret agent proclaim:

"Adhesive, James Adhesive."