It was Shakespeare in Twelfth Night who penned the line, "Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon 'em."
Others just consistently brush up against greatness by accident. Like me. First Elizabeth Gilbert and then... John Malkovich. Two weeks ago today, he and I shared a moment.
I'm sorry. Did I just say I shared a moment with John Malkovich? I meant that I saw John Malkovich in a cafe, but knowing John Malkovich (like I now do), I can tell you that no one just *sees* John Malkovich. When you lock eyes with JOHN MUTHERF*CKING MALKOVICH, you share a MOMENT, okay?!
Let me preface my Malkovich tale by saying that my dalliance with the Universe is unfolding in some pretty bizarre and incredible ways. The day before I met John, I ran into someone on the train - the V train - and no one takes the V train. I don't even know why I was on the V train. But I saw a guy I knew. And I know I knew him, because he knew me, and he said my name. He said it in a way I don't think I've ever heard anyone say my name, as if my mere presence changed his whole morning. And I have no idea who he is. We recognized each other, hugged, and then I realized I'd gotten off at the wrong stop! So I got back on the train. Who are you, mystery man? A friend of a friend? A fellow former high school brass player? (You look like a low brass player. Trombone probably. Tuba possibly, but baritone more likely.) Did we temp together? Do you read this blog? WHO ARE YOU?
But, anyway... back to the matter at hand. So there I was, enjoying the morning on [redacted so as not to blow his cover] Street in NYC, ordering a latte, mindlessly turning my face toward the sun streaming through the plate glass window. Suddenly I notice the man sitting in front of the window. He looks familiar. "That's John Malkovich," I thought. But no, it couldn't be! John Malkovich, right there? Right in front of me? I searched him a bit longer to see if I could recognize the eyes and mouth beneath the white brow and beard. It was him! As soon as I'd surely identified him, I felt my heart in my throat. What does one do in the presence of John Malkovich? Bow? Kiss his ring? Ask to visit the 7 1/2th floor? I wasn't sure. I waited for a sign.
He started eyeing me. He was doing that thing that actors do, trying to decode my backstory. Or maybe he thought he knew me. At any rate, he seemed intrigued. I must admit, even I'm intrigued by myself when I walk out into the world in pajamas and last night's eyeliner. I just can't stop staring at myself in the reflection of store windows thinking, "Damn, girl! You are living your life!" (Back in '07, with a lack of irony that was never lost on me, I'd clomp from my apartment in Weehawken, NJ in said charming state of disarray over to the Pathmark to see if my celebrity fashion commentary had made it into the most recent issue of Life & Style. Stars: they're just like us! Or rather, we're just like them.)
When I felt our eyes lock, I knew it was time to avert my gaze. Making intense eye contact with Malkovich is like looking into the sun: it shouldn't be done. And if you do it, you best know you're playing with fire. Instead I began talking to the counter girl, complimenting her on her necklace. I added sugar to my coffee and then began my exit. On the way out, passing gently by his table, I nodded ever so feebly, offering a small, closed-lip smile. In my mind, I felt like a geisha, winking discreetly at an important and secret client. In reality, I probably looked like an idiot savant with a facial tick. Nevertheless, I felt Malkovich's fairy dust all over me. I was spent, as if we'd just finished making love on the set of Les Liaisons Dangereuses.
Let me not neglect to mention that he was sporting the absolutely gayest shirt I've ever seen. Because I think that's a very important piece of the puzzle. And apparently, he thinks puzzle pieces are important, too, because his chemise bore a similar motif. It was a silky button-down covered in what appeared to be red, orange and green puzzle pieces. It looked like early 2000's Pucci crossed with an MC Escher painting. If memory serves, the shapes may have been melting, Dali-style, just for effect. It was a dazzling display of "Darling, I don't give a f*ck."
Just about an hour after I left Malkovich, I fell in the train. Not ON the train, not whilst riding the train, but rather IN the train, or more specifically in the crack between the door and the platform, known in more proper British circles as THE GAP. (Yes, it is apparently possible although highly ridiculous to fall in THE GAP. No, I know it's not probable. Yes, it hurt. No, it's not the same as falling into THE GAP that sells khakis, though that is their slogan.) The point is, a man rescued me. (And after my divorce, I didn't think that was possible or probable, either.) Who was he, you ask? What did he look like? I don't know. Because I DIDN'T EVEN SAY THANK YOU. I was too much in shock. I didn't even look at his face. All I know is that I exited the train doors wearing a makeshift haz-mat suit while passing out handiwipes brandishing the Comix comedy club logo, and suddenly I was knee deep in THE GAP. Then as time stood still I heard a man say, "HOLY F*CK!" and felt his hands in my armpits, lifting me out of the crater I'd landed in. I limped away laughing at myself and he got on the train. You know, just another Friday in New York.
So, to you, kind Sir, guardian angel of the MTA, I say THANK YOU. Thank you for saving the lower half of my left leg from total and utter destruction. And thank you for saving all the passengers on the 2 express from being late for work due to a sick passenger. ("Do you know why the train is late?" "Sick passenger." "Man, F*ck that." "Dude, she lost a limb!" "I don't care, I'ma lose my job! Be careful next time, fat bitch!") Thank you.
Despite the near tragedy of my fall, my brief encounter with Malkovich gave me the energy I needed to destroy a heckler - during someone else's set - later that night. He was a musician that I swiftly put into place with a John Mayer comparison. (Because John Mayer is an annoyingly cloying musician who loves to heckle at NYC comedy shows*.) The lovely and talented Jiwon Lee continued her performance after the heckler left and said, "Wow. For those of you who don't know, Carolyn is a comedian. And she can rap. You should teach high school in The Bronx!"
I'll take that as a compliment and leave you with this thought:
Why hasn't anyone made a Michelle Pfeiffer mash-up of Dangerous Liaisons/Dangerous Minds? Now, that's GREATNESS!
*For those of you not involved in the scene, this is a true fact and not conjecture or hyperbole. Ya learn somethin' new everyday, as my Dad used to say.
Others just consistently brush up against greatness by accident. Like me. First Elizabeth Gilbert and then... John Malkovich. Two weeks ago today, he and I shared a moment.
I'm sorry. Did I just say I shared a moment with John Malkovich? I meant that I saw John Malkovich in a cafe, but knowing John Malkovich (like I now do), I can tell you that no one just *sees* John Malkovich. When you lock eyes with JOHN MUTHERF*CKING MALKOVICH, you share a MOMENT, okay?!
Let me preface my Malkovich tale by saying that my dalliance with the Universe is unfolding in some pretty bizarre and incredible ways. The day before I met John, I ran into someone on the train - the V train - and no one takes the V train. I don't even know why I was on the V train. But I saw a guy I knew. And I know I knew him, because he knew me, and he said my name. He said it in a way I don't think I've ever heard anyone say my name, as if my mere presence changed his whole morning. And I have no idea who he is. We recognized each other, hugged, and then I realized I'd gotten off at the wrong stop! So I got back on the train. Who are you, mystery man? A friend of a friend? A fellow former high school brass player? (You look like a low brass player. Trombone probably. Tuba possibly, but baritone more likely.) Did we temp together? Do you read this blog? WHO ARE YOU?
But, anyway... back to the matter at hand. So there I was, enjoying the morning on [redacted so as not to blow his cover] Street in NYC, ordering a latte, mindlessly turning my face toward the sun streaming through the plate glass window. Suddenly I notice the man sitting in front of the window. He looks familiar. "That's John Malkovich," I thought. But no, it couldn't be! John Malkovich, right there? Right in front of me? I searched him a bit longer to see if I could recognize the eyes and mouth beneath the white brow and beard. It was him! As soon as I'd surely identified him, I felt my heart in my throat. What does one do in the presence of John Malkovich? Bow? Kiss his ring? Ask to visit the 7 1/2th floor? I wasn't sure. I waited for a sign.
He started eyeing me. He was doing that thing that actors do, trying to decode my backstory. Or maybe he thought he knew me. At any rate, he seemed intrigued. I must admit, even I'm intrigued by myself when I walk out into the world in pajamas and last night's eyeliner. I just can't stop staring at myself in the reflection of store windows thinking, "Damn, girl! You are living your life!" (Back in '07, with a lack of irony that was never lost on me, I'd clomp from my apartment in Weehawken, NJ in said charming state of disarray over to the Pathmark to see if my celebrity fashion commentary had made it into the most recent issue of Life & Style. Stars: they're just like us! Or rather, we're just like them.)
When I felt our eyes lock, I knew it was time to avert my gaze. Making intense eye contact with Malkovich is like looking into the sun: it shouldn't be done. And if you do it, you best know you're playing with fire. Instead I began talking to the counter girl, complimenting her on her necklace. I added sugar to my coffee and then began my exit. On the way out, passing gently by his table, I nodded ever so feebly, offering a small, closed-lip smile. In my mind, I felt like a geisha, winking discreetly at an important and secret client. In reality, I probably looked like an idiot savant with a facial tick. Nevertheless, I felt Malkovich's fairy dust all over me. I was spent, as if we'd just finished making love on the set of Les Liaisons Dangereuses.
Let me not neglect to mention that he was sporting the absolutely gayest shirt I've ever seen. Because I think that's a very important piece of the puzzle. And apparently, he thinks puzzle pieces are important, too, because his chemise bore a similar motif. It was a silky button-down covered in what appeared to be red, orange and green puzzle pieces. It looked like early 2000's Pucci crossed with an MC Escher painting. If memory serves, the shapes may have been melting, Dali-style, just for effect. It was a dazzling display of "Darling, I don't give a f*ck."
Just about an hour after I left Malkovich, I fell in the train. Not ON the train, not whilst riding the train, but rather IN the train, or more specifically in the crack between the door and the platform, known in more proper British circles as THE GAP. (Yes, it is apparently possible although highly ridiculous to fall in THE GAP. No, I know it's not probable. Yes, it hurt. No, it's not the same as falling into THE GAP that sells khakis, though that is their slogan.) The point is, a man rescued me. (And after my divorce, I didn't think that was possible or probable, either.) Who was he, you ask? What did he look like? I don't know. Because I DIDN'T EVEN SAY THANK YOU. I was too much in shock. I didn't even look at his face. All I know is that I exited the train doors wearing a makeshift haz-mat suit while passing out handiwipes brandishing the Comix comedy club logo, and suddenly I was knee deep in THE GAP. Then as time stood still I heard a man say, "HOLY F*CK!" and felt his hands in my armpits, lifting me out of the crater I'd landed in. I limped away laughing at myself and he got on the train. You know, just another Friday in New York.
So, to you, kind Sir, guardian angel of the MTA, I say THANK YOU. Thank you for saving the lower half of my left leg from total and utter destruction. And thank you for saving all the passengers on the 2 express from being late for work due to a sick passenger. ("Do you know why the train is late?" "Sick passenger." "Man, F*ck that." "Dude, she lost a limb!" "I don't care, I'ma lose my job! Be careful next time, fat bitch!") Thank you.
Despite the near tragedy of my fall, my brief encounter with Malkovich gave me the energy I needed to destroy a heckler - during someone else's set - later that night. He was a musician that I swiftly put into place with a John Mayer comparison. (Because John Mayer is an annoyingly cloying musician who loves to heckle at NYC comedy shows*.) The lovely and talented Jiwon Lee continued her performance after the heckler left and said, "Wow. For those of you who don't know, Carolyn is a comedian. And she can rap. You should teach high school in The Bronx!"
I'll take that as a compliment and leave you with this thought:
Why hasn't anyone made a Michelle Pfeiffer mash-up of Dangerous Liaisons/Dangerous Minds? Now, that's GREATNESS!
*For those of you not involved in the scene, this is a true fact and not conjecture or hyperbole. Ya learn somethin' new everyday, as my Dad used to say.
