How To Disappear Completely

Stomp the Yard

"I didn't pick this movie for the intricate plot lines," I told Sarah as we slid into the movie theatre. "This is all about the eye candy."

And Stomp the Yard delivered just that. Intense moments of sheer amazement. "Doesn't this make you wish you were black?" said Sarah as the credits rolled. There wasn't much one could say except nod in agreement. Or enroll in hip-hop, street dance, or stepping classes immediately.

The reason I was explaining the basic gist of the film to Sarah as we slid into the theatre was that due to unforeseen circumstances we missed about the first five minutes of the show. I had gotten to the theatre a little early and was anxiously awaiting my twin's arrival, when a fellow movie-goer (I felt he might be mentally challenged perhaps) decided to strike up a conversation with me. He had a slight accent; it was surreally almost like talking to Borat. Finding out I was in a music graduate program, he proceeded to tell me all about what a genius Mozart was (his opinion based entirely, it would seem, on Amadeus). We progressed to his work in fiction, and patting his coat pockets, he drew out a crumpled notebook: "Dis. Dis is my laptop," he said. "I write short stories. Stories no one would ever think of. Guess what this story is about. It is a mystery. What is something that no one has ever stolen? Go on, think of it. What would no one ever think of stealing?"

Fortunately Sarah arrived in a disheveled panic, and whisked me into the theatre. I have the hardest time telling deranged people that no, I will not be their new best friend for life, so I was glad for the escape route.

"Sarah," said Sarah. "You are just too nice."