In the age-old tradition of the “What I did on my summer vacation” essay, seven Pitt News… In the age-old tradition of the “What I did on my summer vacation” essay, seven Pitt News writers sat down to capture a notable moment from the summer.

Escaping the beat via the meat locker-cold, sticky-floored, broken-seated goodness of a movie theater.

People will do anything to take advantage of the summertime sunshine.

Some people bake themselves to a nice, carcinogenic glow at the Jersey shore or by their backyard pools. They squeal on roller coasters and get drenched at water parks. They take jobs as lifeguards and smear zinc oxide on their noses to look the part. They gladly subsist solely on gelato and Slurpees.

But me, I hate the damn heat.

So when I wasn’t at one of my three jobs, I spent most of my summer at the most comfortable place for people like me: the meat locker-cold, sticky-floored, broken-seated goodness of a movie theater.

I watched plenty of movies this summer. “The Bourne Identity?” Saw it. “Reign of Fire?” Saw it and snuck in my own snacks. “Spider-Man?” Saw it from the nosebleed seats of a packed house. “Minority Report?” Saw it twice. “Goldmember?” Ditto.

But for every blockbuster I helped win its opening weekend, I saw an independent flick, too. Hell, I saw movies this summer that even their producers didn’t see. This is not to say, though, that the indies were any better than the blockbusters. “The Importance of Being Earnest?” Saw it – and liked the previews better. “Sunshine State?” Saw it in Las Vegas – but to keep me from blowing my rent money on the nickel slots. “La Pianiste?” Saw it – and I sincerely wished afterward that I hadn’t.

Somehow, I managed to fit my three jobs into the time I wasn’t at the movies. I worked from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. running documents from UPMC Presbyterian all over Oakland. Then, I’d make sales calls for a telemarketing agency until 9 p.m., and then to wind down, I’d drive straight out to Homestead to take in a late show at the Loews.

Last week, I saw the culminating filmic experience of my summer, Steven Soderbergh’s “Full Frontal.” Whether or not I enjoyed the movie is inconsequential. I called my mom on the way home from the movie. My mom, who shook her head in disapproval all summer at my triply-employed state, asked me when I called her, “Clare, if you like the movies so much, why didn’t you get a job at the movie theater?”

Why couldn’t she have suggested that in May?