More Prancing Ponies, Fewer Bare Butts

Not a movie horse exactly  but living out his pretty pink years at the Crazy Horse Museum in the Black Hills
Not a movie horse exactly but living out his pretty pink years at the Crazy Horse Museum in the Black Hills

SOMETIMES WE GOT TO GO TO THE SHOW. We didn’t call them movies or films or talk about the cinema. We just drove into town and went to the show. Usually westerns I think. But since all of the shows worth my 10-year-old while revolved around horses maybe I’ve just blanked out the occasional musical or romantic comedy to which I must have been subjected.

Have I written about this before? How I tore a picture of Janice Rule out of Susie Olson’s movie magazine and then claimed otherwise.

How I could go to the same show six times when I stayed with my cousin Audrey who sold tickets at the Royal Theater in Northome, Minnesota. Ah…so many Westerns, so many horses, so many years ago.

Now it’s 2014 and there aren’t nearly enough horses in the movies anymore. The Oscar nominees this year were full of bare butts and stupid people tricks, a stolen baby and a rambling old man, a goofy romantic in love with an imaginary girlfriend and a Minneapolis limo driver dramatically in tune with his imaginary cousin, a Somali pirate. And the worst movie of all—full of floating debris and floating Clooney and floating Bullock. And the best movie of all, “Twelve Years a Slave,” which, by the way, was the only one with horses!  See what I mean. Okay so “Dallas Buyers Club” had horses but they couldn’t save it for me—too much Texas all around them.

The second annual Oscar/Food party of 13th Street is now over and a pretty good time was had by all. The food was excellent as was the company. And seeing the pretty Hollywood people is always fun. Somehow though it all seemed rather anti-climatic after two months of cinematic gorging and the frantic last minute viewing of “Her” unfolding at my house as the beautiful people started down the red carpet in California.

Maybe this year I’ll show up at my neighborhood theater once in awhile and avoid a January 1915 binge. Or not.

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