"I don't know, I'm making this up as I go."

So there I was floating around in my amniotic abode at the Hotel Madre Mia, enjoying the free room service and complimentary pre-chewed popcorn when I was suddenly startled by the muffled sounds of what could only be... I had no idea what it could be. I hadn't even been born yet so I had no way of knowing what I was listening to. It was deafening. It was relentless. According to my sources it was gunfire!

Puerto Rico: circa 1974. My mother had taken it upon herself to frequent the local drive-in while I was still simmering in the womb. It seems that the diversified theater only played one of two types of movies… cowboy movies and beach films. The beach films were the typical teenage romps with musical numbers dedicated to some guy named Frankie and his frickin surfboard. The cowboy movies, on the other hand, had little if no singing but a whole lot of gunplay. I am told that with each subsequent pistol shot, I would shift and kick within the confines of my inundated studio. OF COURSE I WAS KICKING! I was submerged in a thick liquid with limited moving space! It must have been like what fish feel when you tap on the glass and yell asinine comments to a creature that has no idea what the hell you are talking about. Deep thuds and nowhere to run. Scared out of my undeveloped little mind while mom was sitting back somewhere in the outer realm sipping a Coke and chugging down a bucketful of snacks wondering why Little Baby is so upset.

She tells the charming tale about how my passion for film began while she was still pregnant. Perhaps. I love movies. However, while I have a great respect and understanding for all genres, I am not a big fan of cowboy flicks and musicals. Weird.

I cannot in all honesty tell you what my first personal movie experience was. No one can confirm this either. I can however share my first memory of going to the movies. I was seven years old. I was hanging out with my cousin Alex and his family. I’m not going to go into some romantic diatribe about how I remember the smell of the concession stand or the murmur of the crowd as they awaited with anticipation for the cinematic event to begin. I really don’t remember that level of detail. For all I know the lobby smelled like vomit and the people talking behind me were spewing out obscenities and death threats. I do, however, remember the huge red curtains covering the entire screen. They were big… and red. Suddenly they opened.

I remember the lights going down after being bombarded with previews. I remember a mountain. I remember a jungle. I remember a gunshot and a filthy looking man. Most importantly I remember the filthy looking man running for dear life from THE BIGGEST ROCK I had ever seen! OH MY GOD! IT’S GONNA CRUSH HIM! AHHHHH! He charged through a cavernous tunnel and dove straight out of the cave while the boulder slammed the entrance shut. I was wide-awake. My heart was pounding. I was seven years old and I was in awe!

It had begun.

And yes… I do realize that my fascination with film began with a hero who carried a gun (which he used quite a bit) while dressed in a manner very similar to that of a cowboy... only cooler.