There's a-- there was--
a movie theater, movie house, in Berkeley, where I live.
And it's one of those avant-garde movie houses
where you go in there, you sit down for three hours
and wonder what happened, because none of the movies
ever make any sense.
And they're from France.
This is a--
[LAUGHTER]
This is an occasion.
It's called "Taking the Movies to the Streets."
"The French movie star takes off her blouse, puts it back on.
And nothing for you, Pierre, this week,
next week, and if I have it my way, as long
as that dirty thing stands up.
The movie ends.
The patrons blink when the lights come on.
I help my wife with her coat.
My friend helps his wife with her coat.
The men around us are just as helpful.
But are any of them like me, confused about what they saw?
Two hours of bedroom crying.
And why did the old nun beat herself with a candle?
What was this about a saint with the flying cape?
Where did the mouse come from when the violin started?
Poor, brie-fed mouse.
10 minutes on the screen and no credit in the end.
[LAUGHTER]
Outside, the stars mingle with neon.
The faces of newspapers drink from the gutter.
We walk back to the car, the four of us smiling.
What was it about?
I look back.
The marquee glows 'psychodrama.'
That's what I need in my life.
Lust is a slow slime in the heart.
I nudge against my friend's wife's tear-shaped ass.
She's beautiful.
I've seen her hang laundry and board a bus in high heels.
Psychodrama, I breathe in her ear.
She squeals, laughs, and tells her husband, honey,
Gary is doing it again.
[LAUGHTER]
Honey punches me in the arm softly.
Psychodrama, he says, and places a creepy kiss
on my screaming wife's mouth."
That really didn't happen.
[LAUGHTER]
OK.