My father has a horrible habit of watching films halfway through.  Usually, they’re (lucky to be called) B-movies, so the risk of jumping in on a convoluted plot is quite low, but my mother and I have always found it absolutely baffling that he’s content to repeatedly watch the last forty-five minutes of something, as if that’s how the film is supposed to be watched.

While visiting my parents over the weekend, I popped onto their iMac to check a few things as my father watched a half-movie on the couch in the same room.  I don’t know what he was watching - nor does he, I’m certain - but I overheard a scene in which a writer’s girlfriend announces she is moving to Seattle.  She asks him to come with her, and he says, “I write about New York.”  She suggests he write about Seattle.  He responds that it’s an absolute non-option.  She doesn’t get it.

I do.