I stood in Movie Village yesterday a disillusioned celluloid soul, when I remembered a passing rave made by my dear friend Tote Bag. "Mandy Moore plays a Born-again." I asked the clerk if he knew of such a movie and he looked as me as though I had just spit in his mouth and replied in the negative. I was about to give up when suddenly I remembered - SAVED! (with the exclamation mark doubling as crucifix). I picked it up, somewhat drawn back by the presence Macauly 'Mac' Culkin in a wheelchair along side Ms. Moore, as well as Jena Malone, who for the record is exactly my type.
I haven't seen this good a movie in such a long time! It was essentially about this high school that put the E in Evangelical. It was actually cute, odd as that adjective seems, how totally it consumed these kids. And then one becomes a gay and his girlfriend in an attempt to de-gay-ify him, gives up her flower and of course gets knocked up, and pretty soon it becomes apparent that none of these kids are who they thought they were. The best part was that it neither glorified secularism nor shot down devotion, and though the latter did take a few good jibes, but the characters were so earnest that it didn't feel like fun was being made at their expense. Rather, it was kind of like observing a different society.
I had another of my bus experiences today on the way home from work. I don't read much on the bus anymore because I love looking at people, searching for beauty. I actually once crashed my car because I saw someone beautiful. It's rather uncontrolable, but no more than any other hobby. When I was 10 I used to collect rocks; now I collect prettiness. But I digress. So I'm on the bus, near the back, on one of those side-ways seats just before the very back seat, the kind that have two very confined seats. At confusion this boy got on. He was my age, but very much a boy: wide-eyed, slightly cautious in his movements, slouchy. I think he might have been just a little developmentally delayed, but in a very angelic way. The bus was very crowded, except for the back seat, which had two people bookending and three seats empty. Still, when he got to the back, he paused, and he got this face like he was thinking, not to the point of pain, but just enough so that I in a blind moment of sociability, scooched my bum over, just a half an inch, but enough to say, "You can sit here." I didn't actually expect him to, and yet he bashfully smiled as he took the seat. I took my right arm from where it was connected at the hand with the left and leaned my elbow on the back of my seat so I could continue looking out the window. I was half facing him, and although I was clearly looking out the window, he arose from his ten year-old's slouch and straighted up, looking about as comfortable as I imagine my father would trying yoga for the first time. Over the next thirty seconds he found a comfortable position, although the hair on his forearm was standing on end. He got off eight very lengthy minutes later, and as his feet hit the cement, he took off in this incredibly awkward but beautiful run.
It wasn't anything. Just a moment.