People are always griping about the demise of the drive-in movie theater. Some rock group did a video at an abandoned one that was supposed to represent the American spirit. What cheap bullshit symbolism. But hey, I'm guilty too. I set a short story in an abandoned drive-in, and somebody made it into a little movie. I wanted to show this movie on the screen that inspired it. Have a little picnic in the dirt, you know? Nobody went for the idea. So much for attempts at poetic justice.

I had one of my worst youthful experiences at a drive-in in the 1970s. Went with my parents and my two bros to see Walking Tall and watch Sheriff Buford Pusser kick ass on the bad guys. Dad drove there like a maniac––I knew he would beforehand because he always did, but I was too macho at age eight to sit in the front seat like I should have. My brothers thought I was a wus already, and I didn't want to fuel that fire.

I got sick to my stomach, like I always did when I sat in the back seat and he drove like a maniac. I sat in back and managed to hold in the vomit until we got there. I guess I got my head out the window in time and puked on the next car over. The guy who owned it put up a stink and my dad was ready to beat the shit out of him, but a family man can't do that sort of thing. Not in front of his family, anyway.

I don't remember the movie at all, but they made me sit in front on the way home. In between Mommy and Daddy, like a little baby who needs protection. 

So let the drive-ins die, I say. Burn 'em all down. I'll watch, tell you how it goes.