When I was kid, my friends and I used to walk through Cazenovia Park to the Seneca Theatre nearly every Saturday. It was 25 cents to get in and the place smelled like old gym shorts dipped in hot butter. There would be a couple of hundred screaming kids in the place — parents didn’t hang around with their children then.

The boys would flatten out the popcorn boxes and sail them through the air hoping to decapitate someone. Once in awhile the long-suffering owner, a perpetually sweating bald guy in a cheap suit, would stop the movie, turn on the lights and threaten to throw everybody out if we didn’t calm down. I remember him screaming, “Somebody is going to lose an eye if they get hit with a popcorn box!” Now that would have been cool.

Now, I hate going to the show. To me the only advantage to a movie house is those big screens. I have a 19-inch TV and it doesn’t do justice to movies like “Star Wars.”

An exploding planet is only a few inches high on my trusty Sanyo, as opposed to two stories high at the local cinema. Of course, some people have television sets the size of billboards, but I digress.

Here are the reasons I no longer like going out to the movies:

The cost: Who wants to pay $4 for a 99-cent box of Dots? And how can they charge $7.50 for a tub of popcorn and a soft drink? Of course, the admission fee is the real killer. If I am going to pay $10 for a movie, I expect Angelina Jolie to sit next to me and share her Milk Duds.

The people: Why do other people have to show up when I want to watch the latest Ben Stiller opus? I didn’t invite them. I don’t know which is more annoying, the old people with the incredibly loud whispers constantly asking to have things explained or the young people talking, giggling and texting for the entire two hours. I say no one over 70 or under 40 should be allowed in theaters — baby boomers only.

Have you seen the parents who bring young children to R-rated movies? What are they thinking? It’s bad enough that the little darlings may be exposed to some guy’s bare bottom; the violence in some restricted movies is truly disturbing. Years ago, my wife and I went to see “Silence of the Lambs” and there were little kids in their pajamas sitting ahead of us. They are probably still terrified to go down to their basement.

The noise: Do they have to crank the sound up to 95 decibels? I don’t enjoy the sound of screaming tires, booming guns and bodies splattering on the sidewalk. The visual is enough for me. And directors seem to think we are too dumb to grasp the emotions being conveyed by their actors. Every soundtrack has to have a 75-piece orchestra to make certain the moviegoer is aware that this is a tender scene, a triumphant scene or a suspenseful scene. I don’t need a dozen bass fiddles droning away to know that the shark is about to dismember the cute girl skinny dipping in the ocean. Honestly, I get it, Mr. Spielberg!

The commercials: This really ticks me off. I don’t mind the previews, they are often better than the movie. But I hate it when a sneaker commercial comes on the screen, or some toothy jerk trying to sell me soda pop. At home I can hit the mute button or go into to the kitchen. At the show, I am a captive audience. When I pay to get in, I shouldn’t be subjected to advertisements. Of course they now slip them into the actual movies in what is innocently called “product placement.” I have a hard time suspending belief when the psycho bad guy is about to dismember the ditzy starlet with a chain saw and he turns towards the camera so I can see his choice of murder weapon is a John Deere.