vituperation

January 18, 2004

Once every decade or so, the fates smile down and bestow upon us a wonderful gift: a motion picture that is life-changing in its scope, breathtaking in its direction and cinematography, and stunning in its ability to pull phenomenal performances — almost always Oscar-worthy material — out of its stars. Such movies have included Gone With the Wind, The Ten Commandments, Doctor Zhivago, Midnight Cowboy, Rain Man, and Forrest Gump. Yesterday, I had the opportunity to watch the latest of these blessings from the gods.

I am, of course, referring to Freddy vs. Jason.

Is it more pathetic that I was so excited about seeing my two favorite horror movie characters in the same movie, or that I actually got chills down my spine when I first watched the trailer?

Fourteen or fifteen years ago, I went to see a local production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat at the Civic Center. The show was performed in the playhouse, which is designed like a small arena. The stage is in the center, down low, and the seats radiate up for 7 or 8 rows all the way around. It’s an intimate area, seating just over 500 people at full capacity.

During the intermission of the show, a man almost directly across from where I was sitting had the misfortune to misstep on one of the stairs as he was making his way down to his seat. His foot shot out in front, his ass dropped to the riser with a thump, and he skated whapwhapwhapwhap down four stairs, riding his ass like a surfboard. Due to the previously described seating arrangements, this meant that all 500 of us saw him do it.

There was a collective gasp from the audience, then an ensuing silence so great after he came to rest that I believe one could have probably heard a pin drop from the other side of the round. He sat there for a moment, looking embarrassed at his predicament, then slowly stood, brushing his hands at his ass. The great gulf of silence was deafening.

He took a bow, and the playhouse erupted in spontaneous applause, the tense moment defused by his quick thinking.

It was to this old memory my mind was drawn yesterday morning as I skated across the wet post office floor, one leg shooting out in front of me and the other curling behind me to drop me into a James Brown-esqe splits, in plain view of the 30 or so people standing in line with their letters and packages. Time had slowed to that peculiar syrupy speed that moments of crisis or embarrassment bring along like so much baggage.

It was raining out, I was wearing sneakers, and I walk very fast. A bad combination when entering a heavily visited place like the post office, for sure. Add to that my general clumsiness and ability to bring shame down like the falling rain, and it’s a recipe for a classic Fredsaster.

It began the moment I stepped off the mat (which did not resemble a man with no arms and legs, I’d like to point out, but that might be because it wasn’t on a porch) onto the slate floor. Water pooled there, a lazy puddle created not by rain blowing in the door, but by simply falling off the shoes of the people who’d been in and out all morning. With an ear-piercing squeal that turned the heads of everyone present in unision, my feet opted to slide in different directions.

I slid for an eternity while everyone watched, practically surfing the puddle all the way across the lobby. I like to think that at least one person there besides myself was rooting for me to regain my balance. I suspect that hope is in vain.

However, I did catch my balance without falling, by madly flapping my arms like the world’s most ungainly bird. I stood for a moment, my heart pounding and my face flushed with heat, before making my way to the PO box to check for mail, because I lacked the panache to take a spontaneous bow.

To my great horror in Publix yesterday morning, the matronly stocker who spotted me in Men’s Health got into a conversation with the teenaged cashier who saw a promo for the CBS Early Show thing, and I suddenly found myself crowded in by four women at the end of the spice aisle, on the receiving end of a barrage of questions like so much machine gun fire.

I got so flustered I forgot to get the basil, and had to make a second trip to the store for it.

If your name is Ali and you emailed to ask what kind of digital camera I use, it’s a Sony DSC-V1. I tried to email you twice, but it keeps bouncing it back to me because Earthlink’s mail server won’t respond.

Check this out:

On the left: one pair of insulated socks from Dick’s Sporting Goods, good for keeping the tootsies warm around the house during winter. Cost? $8 for one pair

On the right: three pairs of insulated socks from the flea market, good for keeping the tootsies warm around the house during winter. Cost? Five bucks for all three.

Who says the flea market doesn’t sometimes have good deals?