Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Doin' Time With Quentin
I empathize with inmates. That's because, in addition to a fear of uninvited sodomy, I'm a commuter. For 50 minutes a day, I'm caged in my car with nowhere to go, while the rest of the world continues around me. Like those lonely souls who turn to the Bible or pen-pal relationships with strangers, I resort to people-watching. Sometimes I catch really great private moments -- nose-picking; meaningful, romantic stares into rearview mirrors; catty cell phone calls. Going through Beverly Hills is nice too. I see all the worst stereotypes of LA, giving me ripe material from which to imagine.
The other day on the way home, I noticed a man in the car behind me talking wildly. At first I actually thought it was a mental patient of some kind. His shaking and frantic gesturing, coupled with relegation to the passenger seat (c'mon, crazy people don't drive!), seemed like signs. Then, after the driver got a chance to speak and he put his hands down, I recognized his protruding chin. It was Quentin Tarantino. He went on this way for the next five blocks until I turned (and I'm sure it continued past that). I felt sorry for the woman who was driving. He's probably annoying to be friends with. But as a silent observer, he's charismatic in a cult leader kind of way.
I empathize with inmates. That's because, in addition to a fear of uninvited sodomy, I'm a commuter. For 50 minutes a day, I'm caged in my car with nowhere to go, while the rest of the world continues around me. Like those lonely souls who turn to the Bible or pen-pal relationships with strangers, I resort to people-watching. Sometimes I catch really great private moments -- nose-picking; meaningful, romantic stares into rearview mirrors; catty cell phone calls. Going through Beverly Hills is nice too. I see all the worst stereotypes of LA, giving me ripe material from which to imagine.
The other day on the way home, I noticed a man in the car behind me talking wildly. At first I actually thought it was a mental patient of some kind. His shaking and frantic gesturing, coupled with relegation to the passenger seat (c'mon, crazy people don't drive!), seemed like signs. Then, after the driver got a chance to speak and he put his hands down, I recognized his protruding chin. It was Quentin Tarantino. He went on this way for the next five blocks until I turned (and I'm sure it continued past that). I felt sorry for the woman who was driving. He's probably annoying to be friends with. But as a silent observer, he's charismatic in a cult leader kind of way.
