Letter 8 – No horseshit, Tim.


Dear Alamo Drafthouse,

Everybody relax, I’m here.  Another week, another letter from your friend in Atlanta to whoever is listening out there. And let me just say as long as there is a ‘Contact Us’ link on your website you can count on hearing from me right up until the day I stroll into an Alamo Atlanta location.  Until then I’ll keep on truckin’ along this amazing planet we live on, writing every week and weathering the storms.  But don’t worry too much about ol’ Nick Fomin.  I can take it.  It’s like I told my future wife:  “Honey, I never write faster than I can think of these things.  Besides that it’s all in the reflexes.”

Now I’m not saying I’ve been everywhere and done everything, but I do know Atlanta is a pretty amazing town and a man would have to be some kind of fool to think that I’m all alone in wanting the Drafthouse to come here. I mean, I’m a reasonable guy but I’ve experienced some very unreasonable things trying to see a movie here. Ticket prices rising so high I feel like I’m being lifted off the ground by a burning blade. Concession stand drinks that taste like medicine and snacks that taste like old fish provisions stored in a dank cellar.  People flying around everywhere during the movie, stepping all over my feet. One dude, standing up during the movie, right in front of me, with light coming out of his phone!? Come on.  Someone, I don’t care who… tell me what is going on with movie theatres today? Where the hell are we? Have we gone back the age of myths and legends?

SIDENOTE: You should have a BTILC event where you serve “The Medicine” from Egg Shen’s six-demon bag.

Maybe I’m asking too many questions.  I’m sure in fact I come across as a greasy,  mulleted buffoon who is mostly just confused and generally two steps behind the real heroes and the forces of the universe that could bring a Drafthouse to Atlanta.  I know it’s out of my hands entirely.  But some days I’m so frustrated with not being able to just pop over to the Alamo for a matinee that I feel like I’m going to blow up in a hilariously cartoonish fashion.  Some days it feels like a curse placed upon me by some ancient god, and all I need is a theatre, a special kind of theatre. A movie theatre with great service, no talking and delicious food and drink to me whole again.

I know these letters have really gotten us nowhere fast, but it’s not like I’m looking for a Chinese girl with green eyes here.  What god must I appease? I mean really, all this time and we can’t find one property or potential franchise owner to fit the bill? Come on y’all.  Let’s shake the pillars of heaven. The people of Atlanta have paid their dues.

May the wings of Liberty never lose a feather,


Loyal Drafthouse Patron

Atlanta, GA

P.S. If you don’t see another letter from me in one week, call the President.


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