I get these ideas — these wonderful, wacky ideas — and they take over my life. I guffaw without apparent provocation while at the supermarket or pharmacy. I am pulled over by a policeman intent on making me feel shamed for an illegal U-turn, and begin snickering in spite of myself. I wake up giggling in the middle of the night. I am no less prone to self-amusement than to self-loathing.
“Bingo,” I affirmed delightedly. “Milord hath struck the nail right squarely upon the head.”
Whereupon Milord offered me the choice of leaving quietly, or with the help of Security.
I have in the past few days come up with a couple of refinements. A very large percentage of those who purport to be writing screenplays on their MacBooks at Starbucks wear those little stingy-brim fedoras that are meant to proclaim, “Hipster!” but which in my view actually declare, “2006!” Instead of one of those, I will get myself a gigantic sombrero of the sort worn by mariachi musicians. Where those all around me are invariably connected by stereo headphones to their MacBooks, I will be tethered to a big bulbous transistor radio by a mono earphone, what I pretend to hear through which will inspire me to sing along, tunelessly: “You’re having my baby. What a lovely way of saying how much you love me.”