As you may know, I try to start every post with some (potentially) relevant anecdote to the film I'm about to 'review'. I do this as a way for my kids to have a window into their father's life in case I'm not around to tell them myself. But when I look back at most of those tales, I see silly stories from a life played very safe. Perhaps, overly so. I'm that guy in the movie that's happy enough, but clearly isn't living his dream.
A little over a month ago, after trying to find an excuse not to do it, I decided to quit being such a wuss and finally do something I always wanted to do. While making out with Brad and Angelina would have been awesome, that wasn't it. Actually, my wife had heard about someone in Houlton, Maine (about an eleven an a half hour drive from my house) willing to give up their family business to whomever could write the best essay.
Naturally, this business was a movie theater. Not just any theater, but the theater. Set in a small picturesque town in the northeast corner of New England, the Temple Theater was a life-long dream I didn't even know I'd been having. Two screens, 400 seats, and an eight-bedroom apartment upstairs was infinitely more than I could have ever hoped for. I'm not religious, but that sounded like heaven.
And if I could combine a hundred bucks and two-hundred and fifty words, it would be mine.
