Jiorge Cloonabors is Michael Clayton, for a moment

It's been said that I look like a number of people: Jim Nabors. . . and. . . well George Clooney. Those are the only two that come to mind, right now. I want to say someone said I looked like Owen Wilson. I like this one the most for its sheer ridiculousness. You decide.

Anywho, why do I bring this up? Well I saw Michael Clayton this weekend. Rocked? Yes. To what extent did it rock? An extreme extent of rocking is said to comprise this picture.

See, as our tickets were being purchased, I had just finished upheaving my Greek dinner for the seventh or eighth time in the last twenty minutes. My meal, the Lamb Shank special, must have been cursed by a host of voodoo priests before being thrown in the skillet. I suspect it had a special place all its own in the freezer. A little opening 8 inches wide with a little post-it note underneath that read "6 feet deep meal."

Flashback to the cinema, I'm struggling to stand up. My body's producing gallons of saliva to neutralize whatever worm or evil spirits I'm struggling with. I look at the movie ticket and see "Michael Clinard." I think, "Snap, its a film about me. . . a comedy: I prevail in the end. Happily Ever After." Then I see George's face all out focus (no that's mine, right) as we go in. I think, "Crap, its a drama, I die in this one. Michael Clooney dies."

Dehydrated and hallucinating, I'm walking into the snazzy theater and make one last stop at the restroom. I purge what should be the last of it. The previews for that new Joel and Ethan Coen film are playing out. Javier Bardem is some psycho with a rocket-launcher-door-handle-gun or something. Its seems pretty far out, and Javier is super cold and speaking non-Spaniard-inflected English.

Wish I could enjoy this but I'm too consumed by the symphony of bodily fluids being swished around. The concert in my stomach has just reached its crescendo. That guy in the back that bangs on the big horizontal gong is doing his thing. I'm up in one more flash, excusing myself out again; the high-brow couple kicking themselves for not just producing the film I'm now interrupting.

I come back in, sit down again. Michael Clooney is doing his thing, he's all suave. Hitting his lines, dressed well. He's got a gambling problem it seems. Five minutes later, I'm shaking hands again with my porcelain friend upstairs in the men's room. One more visit and we'll be on a first name basis.

As I return--for what ultimately becomes the last time--I decide that I belong in that row of seats they keep in the back. The ones with sound-proof glass where the babies go to get out of their system the extreme disappointment that this darkened movie theater is not in fact a return to the womb. It's there that I get to sprawl out and watch this film unfold.