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Hollywood crime dramas are my drug of choice. In those choreographed moments, directed by the greats and acted by legends I am free to explore my dark side. I root for the hero and enjoy the sick logic of the villain. Murder and violence for lust and money, it makes my soul tick in a way that ordinary life fails to. The movies are as much a drama in my mind, my inner self, as it is a story played out on the silver screen. I'm a self-confessed “film noir” junkie. Simply buying the ticket is a Saturday night ritual I cannot forego. My heart rate quickens and I feel a tingle in my fingertips as the transaction completes. The cashier smiles, but for all her commercial faux-charm I am already drifting into that fictional mindset. I am already a hero, a villain, a cheating lover, and a mob boss. My car is a 1929 Studebaker President, not a run down corvette with chipped paint and a tailpipe more rust than metal. My stride and posture change, no longer the run down gas-station man, there is a swagger in my lengthening stride and confidence that belongs to Marlon Brando. I can never get enough of his movies: A Street Car Named Desire, Guys and Dolls, The Godfather. If anyone asks my name from this moment on I say “Marlon,” and tip my trilby. I become that genius of filmography and the real world drifts away as if it was the fictional world and the movies are my new reality.
Hollywood crime dramas are my drug of choice. In those choreographed moments, directed by the greats and acted by legends I am free to explore my dark side. I root for the hero and enjoy the sick logic of the villain. Murder and violence for lust and money, it makes my soul tick in a way that ordinary life fails to. The movies are as much a drama in my mind, my inner self, as it is a story played out on the silver screen. I'm a self-confessed “film noir” junkie. Simply buying the ticket is a Saturday night ritual I cannot forego. My heart rate quickens and I feel a tingle in my fingertips as the transaction completes. The cashier smiles, but for all her commercial faux-charm I am already drifting into that fictional mindset. I am already a hero, a villain, a cheating lover, and a mob boss. My car is a 1929 Studebaker President, not a run down corvette with chipped paint and a tailpipe more rust than metal. My stride and posture change, no longer the run down gas-station man, there is a swagger in my lengthening stride and confidence that belongs to Marlon Brando. I can never get enough of his movies: A Street Car Named Desire, Guys and Dolls, The Godfather. If anyone asks my name from this moment on I say “Marlon,” and tip my trilby. I become that genius of filmography and the real world drifts away as if it was the fictional world and the movies are my new reality.