I am easily distracted by noise. Specifically, eating noises. From crisp, crunchy, staccato sounds of potato chips and crackling of cellophane packaging to the moist and mushy mastication of smooshy cupcakes and confections—I am rendered unable to concentrate on anything other than the noises generated from eating. They grab my unwilling attention at the expense of anything I may have been trying to apply my attention to and drive me to a near-murderous fit of irritation.

This is most problematic whenever I go to a movie theater. Truth told, at my advanced and geriatric age of thirty, I’ve near completely sworn off movie theaters, preferring to netflix everything and watch films from the comfort of my apartment of doom—doors locked, shades drawn and shotgun loaded. However, there are some films that beg to be seen in the theater. I’m referring to the big, special-effects laden behemoths like Star Wars or, most recently, King Kong. For a rare film such as this, I’ll deign to mingle with the circus and the plebs, but honestly, it’s not worth it. I pay eleven bucks to sit in a room with a bunch of walleyed, cud-chewing beasts who sit there all bloated with one hand supplying a steady stream of junk food, while the other hand fields phone calls and text messages. From that first crunch, that smack of the lip, the bleep of a 50 Cent ringtone, or blatant “What’s poppin’? Oh no he didn’t!” of a cell phone call—it’s over and I might as well go home. I can no longer focus on anything in the film, my mind suddenly taken hostage by these loathsome human noises. I’ve essentially paid eleven bucks to be serenaded by the music of hippos grazing because no matter how hard I try, I can’t avoid focusing on these sounds.

At times I suspect a conspiracy against me, being that the main food export of movie theaters is popcorn, the bane of my sanity. Sitting amongst the buffalo and cattle as they feed their faces kernel after maddening kernel incites near-epic violent urges.

I want to grab the bag of doritos from the asshole next to me, flinging them like shuriken into the eyes of these corpulent cockroaches. I want to drop hand grenades into these fuckwad’s super-sized soft drinks. I want to carve out their eyes and replace them with artificially buttered popcorn and wear their shrunken heads about my neck as a warning to others about to pop open that next box of Mike & Ikes.

With these sad facts in mind, I’m sure you can see how excited I was upon learning that Steven Soderbergh’s new film, “Bubble” is being released simultaneously in theaters, DVD, pay-per-view and some premium cable channels. I’ve always believed that if films were made available on pay-per-view or any other format immediately upon first release, I would gladly pay for it. If the average theater ticket is ten to eleven dollars, I’d happily pay fifteen to twenty for the ability to stay at home and watch it. Movie theaters should be relegated to the stigma of cheap seats at the opera. Those willing or able to pay should have the option of staying home without being penalized by having to wait months for the DVD to arrive. It’s absolutely ass-backwards the way movie releases are handled now.

Movie theater corporations believe that they have a divine right to hold films hostage for a set amount of time before releasing them to any other medium so that they can make their money. They feel that since they came first, they deserve special and exclusive treatment. This just flies in the face of all things right and sensible, in my opinion. They force this release method to be the norm so that they can stay in business, because if everything followed Soderbergh’s release method, the theater industry would tank faster than saying “Ishtar” five times fast because they suck Attila the Hun’s nut-sack. They rely on you being forced to use them to see films so that they don’t have to compete. They don’t feel that they need to be clean, civilized and worth the money you pay. In the sensible world of natural selection, these would mix together to form a recipe for an industry just begging to be phased out but they work hard to make sure you don’t get that chance.

I’m not the only person who eschews theaters in favor of home systems and DVDs. By not catering to my preferences and instead kow-towing to theater groups, movie industries are losing money. Did I not mention that I would pay more—practically the price of purchasing a DVD in a store, for the ability to see first run films in my living room? There will always be some asshole that’s willing to wait four hours in line for a chance to sit in a movie theater on opening day, but not this asshole. Don’t you want my money too? If not, then does that mean it’s okay for me to steal your films via P2P? I mean, here I am, offering a legal and lucrative option for delivering your schlock to my optic nerve. Don’t pass on it and then run about decrying those who download movies on the sly. The niche is more than there, it’s screaming to be filled.

I’m packing my shit up to move. Well, actually, I’m procrastinating most of the time, chained to my computer, lost in Tron 2.0, but sooner or later I’m going to have to crack down and deal with my Apartment of Doom because I have to be out of here by August 1st or earlier. My landlord’s been pretty decent about letting me out of my lease and even let me use my deposit to cover my last month, which is unusual because he’s quite a slumlord. I guess it pays to play the victim card.

Since I’ve moved every year that I’ve been in New York City, shuffling around the boroughs, I’ve slowly winnowed away the rat’s nest of crap I’ve accumulated over the past 30 years or so. I came here with a huge truckload of shit. Chairs, tables, dressers, fish, a cat, antique shit I don’t even like and boxes upon boxes of crap I never use, will never use and don’t really want, yet cannot bring myself to throw away. The pack rat syndrome has long been a curse under which I have suffered and with each year and each move to yet another ghetto, I have endeavored to shave away the layers of junk I don’t need and mold myself into a kinder, gentler, simpler man who is able organize and move his possessions in a couple of hours with a cab ride rather than needing a month and a half and the rental of a truck. It’s hard, my people, but I try.

It’s fair to say that since my arrival in the city about four years ago I’ve removed well over half of the stuff I brought with me from my life in Vermont. The fish, the cat, the gym, the dresser, almost all the furniture - all gone and each year I’ve subtracted more and more. Now I’ve decided that this move will be the big one, where I purge myself of all unnecessary crap and assume the life of a true austere, compact and self-sufficient man-of-the-city. It may be just a relocation to around the corner from where I am now, but to this human magpie, it shall be a triumph to end all triumphs! I will not be one of those weird old people who leave behind a maze-like rat’s nest of an apartment, full of old newspapers and bits of string. I will die penniless and without home or possessions like I’m supposed to, god-dammit!

I figure that all I really need is my clothes, a TV for those rare moments I watch it (Law & Fucking Order!!!), some books I just can’t part with and all my computers and assorted gadgets. Actually, all I need are the computers and gadgets but public nudity is not my thing so I’ll make some allowances for pants and other hippie shit like that. Everything else goes to the trash or in a few rare cases, into storage. It’s a good thing. It needs to be done.

Unfortunately having all this crap and trying to sort it all and get rid of it is looking to be more daunting than I thought. But, it must be done as there simply is not enough room where I’m going to and I’ll be damned if all this shit ends up in storage. I must purge this home! Quick, the gasoline! We must cleanse!