Guys, I had it so together this morning.
I got up early and exercised for the first time in, well, years. Then, I showered and felt all grown up and stuff. So, rather than my standard untucked shirt and sneakers, I donned a nice dress shirt and a good pair of shoes. I even tucked my shirt in. I mean, I usually only do that for job interviews and funerals. I drove to work feeling like I finally have this “adult” thing figured out. Then, I strolled into my office waving at folks, smiling.
I made it all the way to my desk before I realized my fly was down.
F. Scott Fitzgerald failed in Hollywood because he misunderstood the role of the movie writer.
Rather than being hobbled by his supreme talent, as newyorker contributor Richard Brody claims, Fitzgerald failed at screenwriting because some writers aren’t as versatile as others. Yes, even the great ones.
A more accurate title for this column would have been Screenwriting Isn’t Novel Writing or Elitist Cinema Columnist Defines Art For You Unwashed Plebes.
Phantom II Convertible
I sit next to Albert Einstein
in a 1929 Rolls Royce Phantom II convertible
parked in a field of tall gold weeds
which seem to breathe
along with the waves beating against the town
at the bottom of the hill
and his mistress rides around us in a wide circle
as her red hair burns the earth behind her
Then I wake to the sound of my son
afraid of the night
afraid of nothing
and I tell him he’ll soon understand as I do
the night brings with it the coarse seeds dropped by migrating birds
that grow into tall gold weeds
for women with red hair to ride though