This post title is an anagram for Michael Clayton, believe it or not. I think of everything. Or too many things. Or not enough things that don't involve Oscar's Best Pictures . Yes definitely that and those ...if you know what I mean.Other Michael Clayton anagrams to savor: "conceal thy mail", "all icy omen chat" and my favorite "Mythic Ole Canal" --which, if you'll excuse the toiler humor diversion, brings Tom Wilkinson's batshit ---er, 'patina of shit' -- crazy opening answering machine monologue to mind.
No -- reset --this cannot be rebirth. If anything, this must be some giddy illusion of renewal that happen in the final instant before death.All of this is my way of saying that I've been devouring dozens of baguettes whilst updating the Best Picture Page. You can now vote on your choice for Best Picture as well as debate my theories on how each picture got nominated. More categories to come. I realize it's tardy.
And then in the fraction of a moment it took for that idea to form -- I realized all of that was wrong, because I looked back at the building and had the most stunning moment of clarity...
I realized, Michael, at that moment, that I had emerged --as I have done nearly every day for the past twenty-eight years of my life --not through doors of Kenner, Bach & Ledeen --not through the portals of our huge and powerful law firm, but rather from the asshole of an organism whose sole function is to excrete the poison --the ammo --the defoliant --necessary for even larger and more dangerous organisms to destroy the miracle of humanity... and that I have been coated with this patina of shit for the better part of my life and that the stink and stain might in all likelihood take the rest of my days to undo.
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