The Automatik

Sin City is an extraordinary film. It’s undeniably exciting, and so thoroughly engrossing, that while watching it, the film’s world becomes the real world. After leaving the theater, I felt discombobulated by reality, and could scarcely focus on remembering where I’d parked.

This is not a film for children. For this, I am grateful. Quite frankly, I grow weary of sharing my long-standing interests in things with the tweens of the world who often don’t even get it. Of course, they probably think I’m too old to appreciate The O.C., but that’s for another essay.
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I went to the mall last night. I swear, I think someone gave me the brown acid. And I’ve never taken hallucinogens. There were more freaks on parade than I can address in one sitting: the metrosexual tweens, the faux-Hilton sisters, the doughy white woman trying to impress her younger black co-worker by discussing Bernie Mac and Michael Jordan, the two hip-hop guys in matching brightly colored Disney character baseball jerseys, and many more.
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