The Accidental Cross-Dresser
Dear Merrill,
Good morning again. It's embarrassing to admit this, but while I was walking
in to work today half asleep, I actually spilled my corner-convenience-store
coffee all over myself, the characters in excruciatingly unoriginal sitcoms and
lame romantic comedies often do. It was pure, unadulterated bad physical comedy
at its finest, complete with pinwheeling, flailing arms, and shouts of
"Whooooaaaah!" from yours truly. The only thing dumber would have been if I'd
driven a golf cart into a pool. Passing motorists openly mocked me as they sped
by. What's more, after later discovering an unfamiliar set of keys in my
pocket, I subsequently realized that apparently, while stumbling around in a
stupor after shutting off the alarm clock, I'd put on my girlfriend's pants by
mistake.
So what I want to know is: If time and space are now obsolete (my theory is
even more radical, by the way: I think that they always were obsolete)
then why do I still have to get up this early to file my copy for
Slate
!?!?
I saw American Movie last night as promised. What a great, great
movie. I guess by this point I shouldn't have been surprised when the end
credits rolled and I found out that Michael Stipe was one of the executive
producers. First Happiness , then the going-into-John Malkovich's-mind
movie, and now this: That crazy loontune Stipe is really on a roll. Three of
the best movies I've seen in recent memory, and they all owe their existence
not to Hollywood and the studios but to an arguably psychotic alternative rock
star with a heart of gold and the wisdom to put his millions where they can do
a lot of good. Stipe ought to be picked up and carried around on the shoulders
of a crowd of cheering moviegoers in the streets. (On second thought, let's can
that idea: He'd probably just get depressed over all the attention.)
As regards the daily news: I toweled off my copy of the Times enough
to make out this headline on Page A12: "Talks on Paying Nazi-Era Slaves Turn
Sour." This may not be the deepest reaction, but I couldn't help wondering ...
at what point exactly do negotiations for reparation payments to
concentration-camp forced-labor slaves "turn" sour? You'd think such an
interchange would be pretty much non-amiable and non-gregarious pretty much
from the word go. Were the Germans and the survivors sipping cocktails on the
veranda and enjoying a nice game of croquet in the garden before the polite
conversation suddenly came to an awkward halt? Gee, I hope nobody got
offended.
Being as I'm still in a bit of a sour mood myself over the coffee incident,
I'd better send this off. Trudging home now to change pants ...
Sourly,
Todd
