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2001-07-23
Jacques Cousteau
B. 6.11.10 St.-Andre-de-Cubzac, France / D. 6.25.97 Paris
Heart Attack
I haven’t tanned yet at all this summer—mostly because last year, by summer’s end, I looked at my skin and thought it looked like a purse. Wisdom, it’s all about making connections. I’ve noticed, for instance, that very little gets done—by me or anyone—whenever Catherine Zeta-Jones is out and about in promotion of a film. Like a sea snake’s bite, her face is paralyzing—no earthly creature, built for ordinary frictions, can withstand the icy coursing through the limbs of it. Clicking through the TV channels, there she is, again, again—Medusa, her very tresses sting. What a dangerous season when she sallies forth to discourse upon her profession and the happiness of marriage to that lipless mirror of manhood. Tonight I’m petitioning the rulers of the airwaves; I demand to know: When will it be safe to go into the culture again?