Good morning, Sunshine. Pretty sure I saw you at the drive-in last weekend. You were rolling around in the back seat, steaming up the windows like a teenager. Good for you, Potsie. And good luck getting those shoe prints off the ceiling. You know, Armor All can’t wash off shame.

So, I’m at the drive-in, enjoying a twin bill and behaving like a responsible movie-goer. And the whole time, there’s this weird family running around taking pictures. I mean, they were taking pictures of everything. Screen, snack bar, gigantic tub of popcorn that cost more than their minivan, urinals crusted with grime dating back to the original “Porky’s,” etc.

The Polaroid family took pictures all night long, even pausing on the drive out to take a final shot of the ticket booth. I’m sure you didn’t notice, what with all those acrobatics in the back of your Subaru.

Seriously, stud. Get a room.

So, in between crying jags (have you seen “The Lorax”? I mean, when that little bear thing is adrift in the river and it looks like all is lost, I just . . . I just . . .) I watched the weird little family taking their pictures and I marveled over it. Such a mundane thing, the drive-in. Loading up the car and heading to Bridgton, or Skowhegan, or Windham is as routine a thing as browsing at the mall or spreading out a blanket at the beach.

Only it’s not, apparently. The weird family with the camera was experiencing it for the first time and they were old. Like 30-something. And apparently there are others, grown adults who made it all the way from diapers to 401(k)s without ever wheeling in to the drive-in.

It boggles the mind. As one who loathes movie theaters, with their gum on the floor, babbling teenagers and “you can’t do that in here” type fascism, I might never have seen some of the classic movies of our time if I didn’t have the option of the drive-in.

I’m talking CLASSICS, like “I Spit on your Grave,” “Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things,” “I Dismember Mama,” “My Bloody Valentine,” “Slaughter High,” “Basket Case,” “Killer Clowns from Outer Space,” “Chopping Mall” and “Poultrygeist.”

The drive-in movies of that golden era made me the person I am today, a mostly well-adjusted adult who hardly ever needs Thorazine anymore.

When we were kids, we’d pile into the car, stuffing cases of beer and small friends into the trunk, and head to the drive-in. If you happened to be dating someone, the drive-in was like a motel room on wheels, and it didn’t matter if your best friend Randy’s foot was jammed into your rib cage because there were six people in the backseat of your Datsun B210. It was good times. Romantic times.

My, how the drive-in has changed since then. Back in the day, you had this enormous, half-ton speaker made of space-age metal that you hung on your window. You had to leave the window open 6 inches to accommodate it, so all the mosquitoes and black flies in Somerset County flew into your car to suck on your skin. This prevented countless teenage pregnancies because it would invariably cause your date to interrupt what you were doing to swat at bugs and to generally complain about everything. “Oh, my GAWD! The bugs are so bad! My knee is stuck in the ashtray and there’s gum in my hair!”

And then, when it was time to go, your designated driver Elwood would forget to detach the speaker and he’d drive away, ripping out the window in his mom’s car and ripping the speaker right off its post. Which was bad news because Elwood’s mom was really mean, especially when she got to drinking.

These days, there is no need for that massive speaker dangling from your window. These days, technology being the awesome thing that it is, all the sound is presented over your car radio. Sometimes on AM! Which means you can leave the window cranked up to keep the bugs out and also, when the show is over and it’s time to go, there’s a 75 percent chance your battery will be dead.

And that’s just one of many changes you will find at the drive-in these days.

Actually, no. Actually, that’s the only change. Otherwise, the drive-in hasn’t been updated since Jimmy Stewart was a young, emerging star. Same towering screen with a few torn panels that will make Gwyneth Paltrow look like she has some kind of skin rot. Same bathrooms with the trough urinals and giant spiders staring from overhead. Same intermission soundtrack that sounds suspiciously like wartime propaganda. Same idiot parked in back of you with his headlights on for the entire first film.

Which is all part of the charm of the drive-in and it astounds me that there are people who have never been. Head out this weekend, why don’t you, and watch a pair of movies the way movies are meant to be watched. Chances are good I’ll see you out there because rumor has it they just made “I Spit on your Grave Again, This Time with Food in my Mouth,” a sequel three decades overdue. We’ll have fun, you and I, deep into the night.

And I mean WAY deep into the night, because I’m pretty sure our batteries will be dead.