The Song of Lunch

I do not read enough poetry. I blame misspent youth, unfocused education, uncritical reading skill. I do love words however, and wordplay. Storytellers hold me in thrall. Who needs television when a story is told in pictures?

Last Sunday, PBS aired the Christopher Reid poem, The Song of Lunch starring Alan Richman and Emma Thompson. If you missed it, kick yourself, then make amends. Find when it will replay. Stay up late, tape it if you must or watch it on line here, but please do not miss it.

Says PBS:

"He," the failed poet and unnamed copy editor at a publishing house, eagerly makes his way through London to meet up with his old flame 15 years after the end of their affair. He arrives to find their kitschy old haunt Zanzotti's now upscale and trendy, having changed with the times. But he is steadfastly unchanged, and he is bitter, adding Zanzotti's to a long list of perceived betrayals and abandonments.

In contrast, the unnamed "she" sweeps into the restaurant, matching its pace and glowing with luxury and tranquility. Married to a successful and respected author, she has not, like him, been ravaged by time; neither is she vulnerable to the temptation of wine, while he is by now well on his way to drunk. Was he hoping their lunch would be prelude to a sexual liaison? Was she hoping for reconciliation or forgiveness? He opens a second bottle, the recriminations fly, and lunch is served.

The story is a "What if", a situation not unknown to the wistful, the lonely, the unhappy or viewers of the "I Hate Men Channel". The narrative is mostly HIS inner dialog. Snape and Emma have a magical chemistry, the story is mesmerizing, the poetry lyrical.

Toad

The Other Cure

In life there are few chances to grab for the brass ring so when opportunity knocks you gotta make it count. I've had a solid, genuine, fortune earning observation over the weekend, but haven't a clue how to turn it into gold. Maybe with your help...

In an effort to drum up business, our local PBS station broadcast Eric Clapton's 2010 Crossroads Guitar Festival film. About half way through I had this incredible insight.

Rock and Roll guitarists don't go bald, don't have thinning hair, they exhibit no signs of MPB. I credit, as Dr. Phil would diagnose, metal toxicity. A life time of rubbing your fingers on steel guitar strings obviously keeps hair fresh and young.

To wit: Clapton, Jeff Beck, Ronnie Wood, all the other Stones, Albert Lee, Steve Winwood, Dylan, The Monkees, McCartney, Bruce, each and every one fully folicled. Sheryl Crow too. Picture your favorite band. Not a guitarist comb over in sight. Balding rockers are the exception. Defies probability.

Certainly there is no shame in baldingness. I'm a survivor myself, but judging from the late night television commercials, there is a pot of gold awaiting whomever cures baldness. Entire treasuries more if we relieve the sufferings of women with thinning locks.

I can visualize the infomercial now, "But Wait..." Just can't picture the product.

Toad