Four years ago, when “Finding Nemo” was released, and my daughter was just 12, I took her and my son to the theater – a rare treat. I despise watching films in a theater. The seats are cramped, the floors are sticky, the bathrooms are uphill and there are strangers everywhere.
So I wasn’t exactly thrilled to be going to the theater to watch
a cartoon an animated feature.
I don’t know if you saw the movie – but it opens with thousands of fishes getting eaten (little baby fishes – hell, they may have been eggs). Anyway, Nemo’s momma bites the hook right off and is dead, leaving the father to frantically search for any surviving baby fishies/eggs, caviar, whatever.
Three minutes into the film and Nemo’s Poppa finds baby Nemo – the last survivor of the predator attack.
At this point, I’ve been in the theater 20 minutes and already drank a 32 ounce Coke. I was ready to go. I stood up and started clapping, and said loudly, “Yes! They found Nemo!“, and then tried to get the kids to leave with me.
Some parents laughed. Most, the way I remember it. My kids remember it differently, but their memory storage algorithms were poorly developed at that point. I’m sure they are just mistaken.
97 minutes later the film ended with Nemo’s Poppa (again) finding Nemo. That’s 97 minutes of my life my children owe me. I keep track – it a really large ledger.
In any case, something reminded me of this. Not important. Not even funny. But 97 minutes? Damn 🙂