Aug. 08, 2003 - 3:11 p.m.
Dear Meghan:
My first typewriter was a Smith Corona. The ribbon produced the most interesting rich, dark robin’s-egg blue lettering. I miss the clackity-clack-ness of the typewriter, as it seemed so wonderfully musical and percussive, especially when inspiration hit. Like an inspirational EKG monitor, the clackity-clacks would speed up with inspiration’s appearance and slow down with the idea’s completion. An objective observer could tell exactly how you were feeling if you were at a typewriter; now, with a computer, and the constant ability to edit, re-edit, re-phrase and re-arrange, my clackity-clacks are now clickity-clicks, in short, four-word bursts, until, at a letter’s or sketch’s completion, I can go back and re-edit, re-phrase and re-arrange again.
I envision the day looking at my cell phone with the same bittersweet nostalgia. “Remember the days before telepsychic implants?”
I am the type of character who likes to indulge his inner brat in a number of ways. If I see it drawn on the sidewalk, I will ‘do’ a round of hopscotch. Two of my favorite ways of, well, acting like a kid, are to ride a grocery cart like it was a skateboard and to sprint down the halls at the law firm. While doing the latter this morning, an acquaintance of mine called Robin called from behind me, “Oh – running away from me, are you?” “No,” I called back, “I am running to you – I’m just taking the long way!”
I am thinking of trying to sell that line to the writers on ‘Friends.’
Visiting the dentist yesterday was pleasantly uncomfortable, a far cry from the dark nightmare I envisioned it to be. Doctor Robert – not only is he a dentist, he’s a Beatles song title – reminded me of me if I were to become a dentist. While taking my X-ray, he said, “We’re not doing this to check how your teeth are doing. This is in case you’re in a plane and it goes down, then I can be on TV holding up your dental records.” It is the type of humor I really enjoy, but which tends to translate not so well.
Within 45 minutes, he had investigated my cracked tooth with a wry “uh-oh, they might all have to come out” comment and quick and precise professionalism. I was on my way slightly over an hour after I arrived, numb face and all (that is to say I left with numb face; I did not arrive with numb face). And of course I came home to more drama from the Clowns – this time an e-mail citing disappointment at my choices for the new show’s sketches. If only that Clown would use his power for good…
Which brings me to God. My friend Jennifer is going through a terrible time of late with her father. Jennifer’s mother (and the father’s wife) died some years ago, and the father has since re-married and – gasp – found God. Like most good Christians, he is using it as a tool to be coolly distant from Jennifer and her siblings, with such pithy ideas as ‘I won’t do what you want me to do; I can only do what’s right.’ Basically ‘I’m innocent – this is all Christ’s doings!’ I am paraphrasing, of course, but you get the drift.
Most of us are the victim of men who think they are right. That is a little dangerous anyway, but if one throws in God as a rationale for correctness, that’s usually when being directed is replaced with being killed. Witness the Crusades, up to and including 9/11 and Operation Iraqi Freedom.
Jennifer’s pop is no doubt (not the Gwen Stefani version) a good man, but he is the type of man who seeks his principles in his new wife and his new god.
If I think it would change things, I’d bring Daddio into his daughters’ hearts, which is full of alienation and hurt, and ask, “So, this is what Christ had in mind, eh?” It makes me recall those famous words of Adam West’s Batman: “If only he had used his power for good.”
Clickity-click,
Vincent
what they said - what they will say
