I see movies with dead people

There's this thing that's apparently been going on for some time at the Hollywood Cemetery. Periodically they screen movies there. In the cemetery. Near the dead people.

So last night I went with Scribe where I met some more excellent people. The line was literally down the block and even though we showed up almost two hours early we still barely made it in. They cut off the line about ten minutes after we got through the gate, which meant my other friend who didn't make it in time to get in line with us was left standing on the other side of the gate yelling at me to have a good time when she arrived a mere two minutes after we walked in. Very sad. She wasn't the only one; there may have been rioting.

They say the price is a $10 "donation" but seriously, don't call it a donation when the angry woman at the gate won't let you through unless you cram a ten spot in her grubby little hands. It's not a donation. It's a charge.

We found some friends who had already carved out a spot and put down our blankets and pillows and opened up our beers. Yep, they let you bring in beers and various food stuffs to eat and drink to your heart's content. With the dead people.

I was impressed with the efficiency of the port-a-potty system. That's important when you're drinking your beers. Especially for me because I have a bladder the size of a small child.

The place was so insanely crammed with people, though, that once you left your spot on the grass there was no garauntee you'd ever find it again. At one point I crept through the grass and crouched to look around like I was some kind of commando.

"I don't know where the fuck I am," I whispered to the people who watched me with curiosity. Then I threw a grenade at them.

But we were sitting behind douchebags in tall chairs so eventually I found my spot. We talked loudly before the film about what douchebags they were, as they were also with girls who spent the entire movie talking about Paris Hilton and taking pictures of themselves, and I confronted the guys openly about their douchebaggery and whether or not they were going to move their asses off the tall chairs. To no avail.

Then they went to the bathroom. When they came back the chairs were mysteriously folded on the ground so they moved to sit beside their girlfriends on the blanket. Our group: two, douchebags: zero.

The movie was Harold and Maude, which I'd never seen before. I wasn't sure where the film was going at first and I didn't laugh at the jokes that were apparently cracking up people behind me, but after Harold met Maude things started to pick up. And it was very cute.
And poignant. But I couldn't stop being creeped out by the fact that Maude was the same evil neighbor woman from Rosemary's Baby.

They had a "DJ spinning tunes" before and after the film, but it was the most obscure music he could possibly have located. I didn't even know they'd made a Spanish language version of "Last Kiss." Two of us totally rocked it out.

And we all learned a new word from this film that we all proceeded to use as much as possible for the rest of the night: comingling. That's what you say when things get a little hot and heavy. "Comingle me, baby."

Over at Paramount they launched fireworks right when the film was over. I'm glad they waited. It was cool to watch the fireworks while we wandered through all the dead people. It was also cool to watch a movie under the stars. I keep forgetting about stars. You don't see the sky much at night when you live in Hollywood.

So to recap: we waited in a hellish line and paid $10 to get into a cemetery to lie on the grass behind douchebags in tall chairs and line up for port-a-potties and climb over people all the increasingly colder night so we could watch a film from the seventies while we drank beers. Next film: Roman Holiday. We're so there.