Pretend It’s You

Every comic personage worth their weight in funny bones needs a friend like Fran Lebowitz has in Martin Scorsese. Martin, the brilliant, wildly successful director who has given us many classics. A man who has achieved that level of American fame where their name is synonymous with excellence (Jordan, Spielberg, The Beatles, Chris Duvall, folks like that).

But none of that matters where Fran is concerned. His function is solely to sit in her presence and listen. That’s what I want, someone (doesn’t necessarily have to be a great director, we won’t be talking about them anyway) to sit their life and accomplishments and concerns aside and hang on every stream of consciousness word that pours from my mouth. Mozart humming. God speaking the world to life.

Like talking heads in a documentary, accomplished people, we know this because their name and occupation is listed right there in the corner of the screen. The ego is gone. Their only value on this mortal coil is the fact that they stood in proximity to someone great. Greater than themselves, greater than anyone (for this particular moment).

Perhaps that’s what God wants as well. If there is a heaven and we all go, we will find that heaven is a a darkened bar, where we can smoke. I mentioned it was heaven right? And we will sit in the presence of the almighty and he will regale us with stories and observations on this world he made. He will tell us why he hasn’t made anything new in millions of years. We will sit and bask in the genius. We will laugh uproariously at all his bits. It is for this that we were created. The type of worship that people are meant for. An egoless adoration.

Hell is for people who are great directors and want to talk about themselves.

Standard