flowers don't grow here because it's midnight in the little village

For a moment, picture your favorite movie in your mind's eye. You know the one. The one where, when the ending credits began to roll and the music started to play, you could only grin faintly and shake your head in utter disbelief that a movie could be so beautiful in its perfection. After you lost your virginity to that first awe-inspiring film, you had dreams -- dreams that your teddy bear would be cast onto the floor once you bought that movie and you held it in your hot little hands, because clinging to the physical embodiment of the film brought you more comfort than a mere plush toy that your now dead grandmother gave to you at birth.

That movie, the one whose title keeps repeating in your head, increasing in volume as you read the previous paragraph -- it's now equal in value to the popcorn I bought in January of this year, when the oil leaked through the box and I was dismayed to realize that what I thought was popcorn tasted of chilled slabs of cardboard saturated with rancid butter.

I have seen the promised land, my children, and it has arrived in the form of a movie. Its name?

"BEING JOHN MALKOVICH!" Echo, echo, echo!

Granted, the title isn't actually in caps nor italicized, but maybe if the dink who makes the cover-labels at the local video rental shop had actually seen the shard of divinity that is "Being John Malkovich," maybe he would've chosen to print it in the correct manner. That being in gold leaf, along with in caps and italicized and perhaps even bolded. They could lug in a mammoth pedestal and push it to the center of the store, place a golden copy of "Being John Malkovich" on top, and then have a heap of wide-eyed children wearing outfits sewn with pure gold dancing around it, breathing "oooh" and "aaah" on the wings of feathery sighs.

In fact, it wouldn't even be like a traditional video rental store, with an array of videos differing in title and nature and seated upon a shelf regardless of their quality. It could be -- dare I say -- a "Being John Malkovich" Temple, and then you can take a video on your way out, kind of like the way they offer informational pamphlets at churches. I think more people would be Christian if they got a copy "Being John Malkovich" upon becoming a member, instead of intrinsic gratification, a goofy smile, and potluck dinners.

And then, come Christmastime, when recruits from the Salvation Army sit frozen in the snow barely exhibiting signs of life save for the persistent ringing of their bells, instead of throwing in some spare change, you could perhaps reach for a few copies of "Being John Malkovich" that you'd keep for safekeeping in your purse, and then hesitantly slip them into the little red donation pail.

"Being John Malkovich" could be on every channel during every hour of the day, and when children came home sweaty from baseball games, they could sit and have a glass of lemonade as they watch "Being John Malkovich" once more.

Of course, the children would be given ear muffs and possibly blindfolds, because "Being John Malkovich" is rated R for language and sexuality and is thus not meant for the eyes of little people and their probing questions about why the woman is gyrating her pelvis against the bald man's.

And instead of Teddy Grahams -- graham crackers shaped like rock star teddy bears -- they could be Malkovich Grahams, and have little graham crackers in the shape of the shiny heads of the elderly and sometimes middle-aged.

I keep laughing while typing this out, because I know someone is going to take my advice and rent the movie after being so hyped by my now two-paged ravings, and then have to take a bowl of Zoloft the day afterwards to keep from committing suicide.

Even though I'm snickering through my teeth and absentmindedly wringing my hands as I type out paragraph after paragraph, I'm dead-ass serious when it comes down to the general message of this entry -- "Being John Malkovich" rocks. See it. I don't care if you have no money, are lazy, or have to lie belly-down on a skateboard and push yourself along just to go rent it.

See it.

Because you know what? Flowers? They don't grow here.