I was all set, all set, I tell you, to cut the remainder of Max's toenails on Saturday night, when the Designated Driver arrived home with a brand new copy of "Big Trouble in Little China." Now I know you're all asking yourselves, "But Melissa, aren't you a multi-tasker? Didn't you write your entire grad school thesis while re-playing Seasons One and Two of Family Guy?" The answer to both these questions is yes. And therefore it comes as no surprise that my Old English translation of the Life of St. Cecelia, coupled with an analysis of her shockingly tense chaste marriage, holds a great deal of 1980s pop culture references. My filmmaker friend asked me at brunch on Saturday, "How do you write?" I was more than a little taken aback by the question, but then I realized he was asking me my pattern, my habits, the signals that let my brain know it's time to get down to business. And I had to answer, without hesitation, "Television." He found this absolutely mind-boggling, but I tried to explain. See, it's scary, sitting down in front of an empty computer screen, or, worse, 120 pages you've managed to build and now must take apart, line by line, word by word, to find out what's working and what's not and how and why. In certain instances, it's been known to send my heart racing and my fingers fumbling for a tumbler of vodka I've forgotten to pour. But somehow, somewhere, my mind tells me if Rachael Ray's yakking about EVOO, or Tony Shalhoub wondering if he left the oven on, nothing too bad can happen. Nothing too serious is going on. I'm not pursuing a dream, not giving myself some sort of self-indulgent therapy. I'm just watching a cooking show. And, in the meantime, jotting down some crap.
So what, you might ask, does all this pseudo-philosophizing (Joey Potter to Dawson Leery, circa Season Two - come on, people, you can't make this shit up!) have to do with an old Kurt Russell movie and Max's toenails? Well, here's the sad truth of it. I was too riveted by Kurt's stonewashed denim, his poor excuse for a mullet, and his incapability of doing anything smoothly to multi-task. He created such a fallible hero, one who didn't know everything right off the bat (like Segal, or Van Damme, or any of the other testosterone-dipped freaks) and wasn't afraid to be wrong (as referenced by the hair). I kind of love him, and therefore the movie, for it. So thank you, John Carpenter.
As I was writing this, the Fiery Redhead called from NYC, wanting to know when I was coming for a visit. I just said the following words I thought I'd never say: "I don't think I'll ever be able to take time off again."
Ahh, I love that movie.