It's nearly properly Winter now, yet I was thinking about swimming pools earlier this evening. There's nothing quite like being submerged and buoyant in chlorinated water. Now, I haven't experienced zero gravity but I do feel qualified to say that in comparison with a dip, it's a rotten loser of a time. Where are the foam noodles to awkwardly straddle? And scolding brick tiles to bake on after the so-called 'experience'? A backyard pool offers both of these devilry pastimes, in addition to the pleasurable sensation of being simultaneously refreshed and warmly encased by the element that brings life.
Then, for some bothersome reason, or begrudging obligation in an exotic explorer's game, you must get out of the pool and without the intention of swaddling yourself in a dry towel or jumping into a hot shower. Of course, the instant you leave the water, the North Wind rips through, chilling you to the bone marrow. It can be hard to tell when you're living it, but those seconds or minutes of blistering cold, shrinking bits, hardening nips, and Mother Goosebumps are actually worth it. Yes, indeedy - the moment you re-enter the water. Hohhhhhhhh. Blood rushes. Skin settles. Stomach inexplicably full of soup, a hearty one.
I have felt this kind of warmth, deprivation and sweet consolation/reward upon reacquainting myself with fictional television in the last few weeks. Nothing too special, really. Just some good old fashioned Waspy dishes: Blackadder; The Americans; It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia. It's been a treat.
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I took myself out to the movies tonight as well. As a great admirer of Steve Coogan, Rob Brydon and their collective works, I thought The Trip To Italy would be something of giddy reunion for the three of us. The movie provided many laughs, for sure. At the same time, I was distracted by the booming clarity of their voices and my own dreary inner monologue. Among the celebrity impersonations and charming banter, the grave, morally ambiguous and melancholic sides of the actors made for a richer, more layered experience than most comedy features of today seem to offer.
After watching a sufficient portion of the end credits, I wandered out to the lobby, still half-immersed in the movie and partly-preoccupied with the week ahead: "I wonder how long Steve had been considering moving closer to-- I should validate my parking". I approached a couple of employees hanging around the ticket counter. One took my parking ticket; the other casually observed me.
"The Fault With Our Stars?"
"What? No. God, no." I responded.
"Oh, you just look a little weepy."
"I saw The Trip To Italy. Pretty great, I just find watching middle-aged men too..."
"Depressing?"
"I was going to say relatable, but depressing is also apt."
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Presently, I'm reading David Mitchell's memoir Back Story as well as traffic signs. I'm learning fascinating things.
Thought of a pretty big-budget sketch today also. The joke can still be done in an ordinary context, but wild effects and multiple locations and legions of extras would enhance it. Maybe I should crowdfund it - concealing the entire premise, punchline and subtext, and assuring audiences "it's simply hilar".
Exciting writing opportunity on the horizon. Vague details and comments to follow.
