Mystery

Jesus, listening to NPR yesterday depressed me. An older man, a psychologist in Philadelphia who does a radio call-in show, has been a quadriplegiac for some twenty years. He was on to talk about a book he's written, comprised of letters written to his autistic grandson. The impetus for these letters is, when you get down to it, death. Death death death. Because he's a quadriplegiac and they're just dying off all the time. Say boo to one and pow, you've got a rolling corpse on your hands. These letters are, I guess, supposed to be about life and living in that moment we're always supposed to be living in. But, Christ, all he could talk about was his own imminent demise, despite the fact he's lived for twenty years, operates his own practice, does a radio show and newspaper column, and now has written a book. So I'm thinking, maybe you're a little better off than you realize, buddy.

Granted, his injuries were more serious than mine. Even so, he made a telling comment, that he tended towards depression, even before his accident, which was not exactly a bombshell newsflash.


So to Mr. Crippled Frasier of Philadelphia I say, keep on on keeping on. And don't send me your book.

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Crap, Word has stopped working on my pc. Where are my disks? Who knows.

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I saw this at the theater the other day and loved it: Wes Anderson's American Express commercial.