The bliss of solitude

Bryan Lark Daily Arts Editor

Alone.

You're probably reading this alone right now. You'll probably go home alone afterward. You'll probably spend a great amount of your life alone.

What's so wrong with being alone, one might ask?

Well, if everyone listens to what society tells us, there's nothing wrong with being alone in your own home or in class or working out or at porno theaters. But no, solitude is not kosher when it's found in places reserved for socializing or group activity: movies, concerts, dance clubs, bars, parties, circuses, S&M shows, etc.

Greta Garbo had the right idea, bucking her societal norms, saying "I want to be alone." But, dammit, what if I want to be alone sometimes, too? Too bad for you, my conscience says. If you fraternize, they will come.

Last Friday, I ignored the advice of the good little mainstream boy on my shoulder, deciding to buck my own system by going to the movies alone.

It's not as if I haven't been to the movies alone before - this time was different.

I didn't go alone out of necessity or boredom or pathetic loserdom. I went to the movies alone as an act of pride, as a form of liberation, as an expression of individuality. Or at least that's what my therapist tells me.

Yes, sports fans, I did it. I, the alone ranger, broke the ranks of the couples and groups by attending the 9:45 p.m. screening of "The Full Monty" at The Michigan Theater completely and utterly alone.

What awaited this single guy beneath that daunting marquee? What was in store beyond the line of people buying popcorn for their dates? What could I expect amongst this swarming sea of human togetherness? Gather 'round and I'll tell you.

Trading in my Kenneth Cole loafers, Structure sweaters and ultra-trendy baggy jeans, I slipped into some old Levi's, an inside-out sweatshirt and a backwards hat and strapped on some new, gleaming white Nikes, a kind of "No, I'm not a loser, I just happened to be going to the movies alone, thank you very much!" outfit.

With my new persona intact, I strolled up to the ticket booth after hundreds of laughing, conversing people and said, "One, please."

"Excuse me, one?" said the box office lady half-shocked, half-jokingly. Yes, one. Now quit looking at me all pitifully, I wanted to say back. Instead, I kept my cool and left the bitterness and guilt over flying solo to be resolved by inner soliloquies and a churning stomach.

Why was I so damn nervous? Why couldn't I just admit to myself that being alone is OK? Why didn't I just turn around and get the hell out of there pretending that I had an explosive case of Montezuma's Revenge?

I couldn't run because I had to prove to myself and society that I could do it and that people who see movies alone are people, too and that they're the luckiest people in the world, or something like that.

It was going to be a tough sell. When I got to the balcony, I got enough shocked stares from the patrons that you'd have thought I'd just called their mama a whore. But no, I was just alone.

And being alone was sufficient reason for the people across the aisle to give me a second and third once-over. Apparently I also exuded the pitiful air of a lost puppy dog, enabling the elderly couple two seats over to offer me the opportunity to sit with them.

I, of course, declined for the good of my mission and was extremely pleased when the lights went down.

Much to my dismay, the lights came back on after two trailers and a man came on stage babbling about needing money and Che Guevara. I ignored this guy until he said the words, "Let's all turn around and give the projectionist a big round of applause!"

My cover was blown, the NOC list was in the open, Elvis had left the building. Everyone followed orders and looked at the projection booth, but I, in all my anxiety, projected their sights onto me, forcing me to almost compromise my objective.

But no, I stayed and watched the whole damn thing, just to spite them, and I loved it! Somehow my desire to be alone had made me an outcast, pissing me off to unfathomable depths. Although, when the lights went up after the rousing finale, I didn't stand up and scream, "I did it! I saw a movie alone! And I'm not a loser! I'm OK, you're OK!"

Nope, not this single guy, the alone ranger. As soon as the men going the full monty left the screen, I grabbed my coat and hit the stairs, scurrying like an LSA media specialist from Auditorium A when classes begin.

All right, children, what's the moral of this story?

You, too, can go to the movies alone, albeit with an extremely guilty conscience and the pity of those around you.

All right, my adventure didn't solve much. Society had won. They had shunned me and sent my individuality packing. But I beg of you now: Go it alone, carry on my mission, see a movie by yourself unashamed, teach the world that there is a difference between alone and lonely. Solitary moviegoers of the world unite!

Uniting won't work, will it? Oh well, never mind. I guess I'll just make plans for this weekend - with other people, for a change. God, I'm sick of me.

- Bryan Lark is a pitiful loser looking for friends. Please e-mail him. You can reach him at blark@umich.edu

09-25-97