Clyde and I make a rainy Sunday into an excursion with a quick trip to New Orleans.
We arrive at Canal Place, park the car, and walk out into the chilly spring rain. As a result, we do something we’d rarely do: we stop at the firt eatery we find — Landry’s — which, as a chain, is a bit touristy for our tastes.
Still, the crawfish and shrimp platters we order taste remarkably good … and we’re in and out of the restaurant in time to cacth the 12:30 show of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. This incredible little movie played all of one week in Jackson, which told us we’d probably like it … and we do.
About the time the opening credits begin, a man enters the moderately crowded theatre and plants himself just two seats down from us. As he settles, he snorts and sniffles — juicy, nasal sounds that make no secret of his fresh, wet cold.
It’s okay, I tell myself. He’ll get quieter as the show goes on.
Nope.
During the movie, this guy snorts back four gallons of ick. And these aren’t quiet little sniffles, either … we’re talking long, drawn-out, reverberating snorts that sound exactly like a drowning man snoring.
I used to think the most irritating thing fellow movie-goers could do was take a cell phone call in the theatre or clear away trash from previous shows.
I was wrong in a big, big way.
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