Thanks, Crispin

I met Crispin Glover the other day at the La Brea Tar Pits. It was an accident. He was dressed quite nattily, and we discussed his movies -- the trailers for which we included in our last post -- and then exchanged pleasantries. It was very cordial. He's a great guy.

Here's what you may be asking: "That's it? Two Surrealists meet each other on the street and they exchange pleasantries, go their separate ways, and that's all? There were no monkeys? No giraffes? No string quartets perched in the trees overhead?"

Right. Exactly. Because if two Surrealists met randomly in the street and all kinds of crazy stuff started happening, it wouldn't be that surprising, would it? As a matter of fact, you'd kind of expect it, right? So the Surreal thing would be for nothing out of the ordinary to happen at all. Which is what did happen.

It was Surreal.

And then, it rained. In Los Angeles. We parted ways, and the sky opened. It never rains in Los Angeles, especially not this year. It was as though the heavens nodded slightly to us, appreciating our restraint.

It was art.

Vince out.