Looking over more of the original epistles, I found first how upset the Nostrumite was over the death of Francois Lyotard. I can understand that. Then there was this: The Mite was pretty happy when the week began, especially after learning about the crying baby contests in Japan, where the screaming contestants are held in the firm grips of Sumo wrestlers. I'm assuming that's true, or at least I'm hoping that's true.
Then followed a bunch of nonsense about a new way to distribute episodes, which of course by now is so old hat as to be beyond interest. Then there was this:
The Nostrumite is in a state of permanent depression over India testing the bomb, which he feels is a pathetic attempt by the subcontinent to grab some headlines away from the final episode of Seinfeld. Could they have come up with anything any smaller minded, he wonders. What are they going to do when The Simpsons finally goes to that residuals heaven in the sky? Declare war on the Maldives? The problem is, once India starts testing, all the other subcontinents are going to want to start testing too, and the next thing you know, you’ll never be able to find a seat on the subway, much less a decent baguette under ten dollars. Not that the lad is inclined to trivialize geopolitics, mind you, although he does refuse to read any road signs whatsoever until a certain company renames itself Myanmar Shave. But he is capable of seeing connections that others either miss or dismiss. In fact, he’s the original consilient, or at least that’s the way he’s been referring to himself lately. (Whatever that means; something to do with thinking ants, I think. What do I know? I’m just the messenger.)
Wow. The final episode of Seinfeld. That brings you back. And look as the prescience! We knew even then that Ant-Man—sort of—would make it to the movies. (Are we the only ones who remember "Mant"?)
Next up was a tragedy. The comments speak for themselves, so I'll let them.
Anyhow, we almost didn’t make it
this week. The Nostrumite is in a state of permanent depression over the
passing of Francis Albert. You should see the lad’s music collection. 14
Sinatra CDs (“with none of that Reprise crapola,” as he likes to point out), a
couple of Disney cassettes complete with read-along storybooks, “Rent,” Julie
Wilson singing Cole Porter (she’s this grandmotherly chanteuse with a big
flower in her hair—if you’ve ever heard of her you’ve been doing much too much
nightclub-hopping), a Dr. John album (not because the Mite likes Dr. John all
that much but because the picture on the cover looks like RBS [i.e. Richard Sodikow] and the lad just
couldn’t resist the irony of the thing), and a collection of Halloween sound
effects. He used to own a Haydn symphony album, but he got rid of it because,
he said, he “doesn’t like surprises.” Obviously, the Sinatra is the only stuff
he really cares about. One night he played me “A Quarter to Three” to
demonstrate how a speech should build up from soft to a crescendo: “That’s the
way debaters should do a one A.C.,” he told me. Whew! I mean, for the Mite,
Sinatra reigns big-time, and now all the lad does is mope around the apartment
saying, “No more comebacks. No more comebacks.” It brings a tear to the eye, to
tell you the truth. Not to my eye, of course, but that’s another story
altogether.
Until next time, this is E.G. Marshall wishing you pleasant...dreams?
No comments:
Post a Comment