Depressingly Hard Times for the Down and Out

This brief essay is intended as a guide for the down and out. In particular, it examines what the cinema can offer those who are down and out.

I shall begin by rapidly outlining the steps involved in cinema selection, and then consider how to get into the cinema building, where to sit, three sources of free popcorn, and, finally, how to interpret films.

To the tastefully furnished person, barnacled with discreetly elegant lovers, the selection process is simple and, indeed, not unpleasurable (!). He merely examines a newspaper and chooses which film he would "like" to see. However, you, the down and out, could (or would) no more do this than could (or would!) a young man choose death over lonely virtue. Hence, the importance of the first, or selection, stage.

Cinemas can be found in any open street or plaza, across from any square where breezes sift the grasses and kind, pleasant people stroll, leaving like old newspapers their woes behind.

Finding a cinema is no problem.

However, once found, it must be methodically tested to determine if it, of all things, can best serve the needs of you, who is down and out.

It is wise to commit the steps that follow to memory, unless you plan to carry this essay as reference, for it will avail little when selection comes to "appeal" to a passerby (as the philosopher "appeals" to reason), unless he too be down and out, which is unlikely.

On an exterior wall of every cinema there is a large and extraordinarily informative pictorial poster I shall call the "playbill." This is the first object of your scrutiny; approach it, but at no moment should you be unprepared to flee.

Frequently pretend to draw a watch from your vest and consult it. Whistle a Broadway tune or audibly complain of current liberal politics if anyone should pass. Regularly cough and adjust your attire.

These behavioural routines should be practised and occur and recur automatically before you begin actual playbill examination.

Look at it (the playbill). Is it not nice, and clean, and unlike other things in its want of dirt and "smut."

Do not stare too long! Turn around and look open and sage, as if deliberating whether to ask a passerby to recommend a haberdasher.

Important: If you sense the possibility of insult from any quarter, at any time, IMMEDIATELY sprint away crying "Taxi!" or "Why, there she is at last!" Do not return before a week's time or before you have donned radically different (but not radical.) attire, and false whiskers, if possible.

If, however, you still retain a fragment of hope, appear to decide against visiting a haberdasher to-day and turn around absent-mindedly. When you again confront the playbill, react with surprise and curiosity as if reminded of something long forgotten, as if seeing an animal believed extinct or a deed long banned, as if treading on a tack, as if pitching your foot against a stone in crossing a heath, as if coming awake underwater, or underground. Force yourself to laugh loudly, and remark "Hi!" or "Wot's this!" or "Wot do you know!" in the voice used to greet business colleagues at parties.

Since your back is once again to the street, indicate by the motion of your elbows that you are filling a pipe as you resume the examination. Some time may be spent this way, showing your laudable reluctance to spill or mis-pack any of the expensive tobacco.

Since your back is once again to the street, indicate by the motion of your elbows that you are filling a pipe as you resume the examination. Some time may be spent this way, showing your laudable reluctance to spill or mis-pack any of the expensive tobacco.

Meanwhile, note how the playbill is a masterpiece of coherence and symmetry. Four corners suspend in balance the organic whole, the articulate mix of image and word.

The allure is thus:

On the playbill there is colour and depth. Gentlemen kiss ladies. Above the playbill there is a lite, so the cinema fan can read it in the nite. The lite is warm on you, and warm on your cheek which is pressed to the glass that protects the playbill from those who would like to rip it down to take home.

"Sizzling passion and adventure!" you read, aloud, thru the fogged glass, "Heartwarming! Love 'n' laffs lived to the hilt!". Behind you nite strikes. In the park, the colours seem to fade. But not on the playbill. You read aloud (moan) the names of the starlets and heroes, and the name of the director.

Inside, an audience of strangers roars as you pray for a favor from G.

Your saliva is on the glass!

Ladies kiss gentlemen as you masturbate softly. Dawn creeps into your running eye!

But all this, ALL this is just a fleeting fantasy, of fancy: The space of no more than a second or two (if that much) is abused.

Be sure to clean the glass before you leave, with the small rain as it falls.