This article is part of the The Great Authors Series series.
There was a jar of this lovely amber Aster-flower honey in my pocket when I attempted to bring it inside with me to see Captain Phillips at the cinema. A rude young man in an ill-fitting blazer told me no concessions were allowed into the theater. This was a ridiculous premise considering our conversation took place within sight of a "concession stand" selling nachos and something called a "jalapeno popper," which I dare not even imagine.
No matter how persuasive and rational my argument, I was refused entry, and this was well into the starting time of the film, meaning I was missing the previews before the show, which I quite enjoy. There was no reasoning with the regime of the AMC Loews Boston Common. I watched as my honey was thrown into the trash bin. It was as if Mussolini and his fascists had returned to power. I felt sick.
Three years ago, when we were burying my uncle, Cleaver and some gross lady dog (Solstice???) showed up at the cemetery and starting going at it really loudly. It ruined everything and we had to have a "re-do" the next day and it cost a fortune. I've hated him ever since for that.
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