Sunday, March 28, 2010

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Someone told me once that I live my life as if I worry that someone in Indiana might not know how I feel about everything. OK, so I'm self-expressive. I have never understood the reluctance of many people to say what's on their mind, e.g. "I really hate veal, but they were all ordering veal and I didn't want to make a thing of it so I just went along with the crowd.."

Or, conversely, "I never got the chance to tell Stanley that I enjoyed his sense of humor, and now that he's been bifurcated in that sawmill mishap, I guess I'll never have the chance to."

You don't like veal, don't get veal. You like Stanley's quips and bons-mots, tell him. That big sawmill blade is a-whirrin' for all of us, somewhere.

Which leads me to this: Woody Allen described mime as the only spectator event that an acquaintance of his could enjoy, outside of a fire.

I'm doubly so. Even if there were a fire and the firefighters showed up in harlequin
mime getups and pretended to pull hose lines, hit a hydrant and pour water on the inferno, I would not get the point of mime. Why on earth would one spend time learning to fake spreading out a picnic blanket, or being trapped in a glass cube, or going down steps, when it's just as easy to spread out a real picnic blanket, not be caught in a glass cube, and walk down real stairs if necessary?

Mime fans lining up to straighten me out on a few things, say hello to the others in line ahead of you: NASCAR spectators, Palin supporters, people who think proper grammar and spelling are unnecessary outmoded concepts and gun advocates. Please take a number.
Current waiting time is more than 15 minutes.

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