The First Five Minutes of Race to Witch Mountain: A Non-Review

Yes, that's the Rock.  The fucking Rock, aka Dwayne Johnson, whom you may recall from such hits as this musical number.  He is currently starring in Disney's latest attempt to negate my childhood Race to Witch Mountain.  Due to my wife finding said Rock to be hot funny "we" decided to go see it.  I went begrudgingly.

To be honest, I love going to the movies.  I love drinking a barrel of Cherry Coke and chasing it with a vat of fake butter.  I love having Milk Duds cling to my teeth so that I can savor their flavor for the entire film.  I love the way the floor sticks and how you have to keep putting quarters in... wait, wrong movie experience.

What I'm trying to say is that I enjoy the movies.  However, I don't always enjoy my kids.

I knew that Thing 1 would be fine.  He is 5 and obsessed with all things sci-fi.  He was sold by the opening credits.

I missed the opening credits- and the previews, because I was standing in line selling my soul for a wheelbarrow of popcorn.  Despite the fact that the matinee tickets, including the kids, cost $6.25 each (remember when that was the adult ticket- at night?) I opted for a moment of brilliant dad strategery and forked over two-months salary for the boys to each have their own "snack pack" which included popcorn, drink and a very long piece of sour candy that made Milk Dud adhesiveness look like a bunch of tomfoolery. This is a little something I like to call "thinking on my feet."

The snack packs were a hit.  Then the movie started.  I didn't hear a damn word.  

It was Thing 2, barely three-years-old and current student of the I don't think he'll be fine school.  He of the I promise to be a big boy in the movies despite the obvious lack of all animation theory.   He of the I'm crying because I suddenly need to sit in the back row movement.  He of the pain in my neck.

Five minutes later I had escaped Witch Mountain and Thing 2 was with me.  He clutched his snack pack like a trophy.  In the lobby I approached the guy with the tie, which I assumed made him the manager.  He said I could return to the box office and receive my money back.

The girl at the box office, 16 at the oldest, was full of braces and apathy.  I had my receipt and one child with me, as evidenced by said child crying on my person and clutching prized snack pack.  I didn't, however, have two ticket stubs.

I had one and she suggested I go back into the theater and retrieve the other. 

"Let me get this straight," I said, suddenly feeling very much like a grown-up. "You want me to return to the theater I just left because my son was throwing a fit... with that son, who is obviously just now getting over that fit, and climb over the same paying patrons I just climbed over, to get a piece of paper that proves my son- the one throwing a fit, isn't in there?"

"Yeah," she said.

"What's to keep me from getting all of the ticket stubs and getting a full refund?"

"I dunno," she said.

"Do you think the other guests would appreciate your suggestion?" I continued.

"I dunno," she said.

"Just give me the damn $6.25," I said. She needed ID.  A line was growing behind me.  There was a form to fill out.  Cinemark doesn't take such things lightly.

Ten minutes later I had half of what I should have and a little less dignity. Thing 2 had a piece of sour candy that would likely last him an hour.  I was no longer upset with him or his behavior.  Hell, I couldn't blame him.  I didn't want to see the movie either.

We got in the car and drove to Target.  We had time to kill and we were out of dog food.