I’m almost ready to shut up about the finale. But not yet.
After reading several discussions that said that the east coast saw a version of the finale which had an ending shot of Meadow entering the Holsten’s diner, then, the infamous cut-to-black, while the west coast saw a version with the last shot being of Tony touching the top of the jukebox at the table. I wondered why the hell, and how, they would do that.
When I saw the finale, I saw it via my friend Pirate Pete’s somewhat questionably legal download. I saw the Meadow ending. Here’s a location shot of Meadow’s mad parking skilz (it’s the final shot ever filmed for the show, done in April 2007.)
When I watched the very same Pirate Pete file of the episode again tonight, I saw the Tony ending.
It was the same file.
What.
The.
Fuck.
I must have remembered her, and not him, as the file didn’t change. Was it the shock of the quick-cut to black that caused me to blot out the true last shot? Has America entered a David Lynch film? Did all of the east coast get shocked into having amnesia about the very very last microsecond shot of Tony?
Did anyone else experience this moment in these two different ways? What the hell?
I approached the entrance to an all-night Kroger supermarket late last Friday night. I was gettting…does it matter what I was getting? No, I don’t think it does. But what I wanted was not found there, but was found at a Fiesta supermarket. I’m more a Kroger guy than a Fiesta guy. Fiesta overwhelms me with its Calcutta Wal-Mart vibe.
So, as I approached the entrance, I noticed a tall, trim blonde coming at the entrance on a trajectory that would cause us to collide if one of us didn’t change our speed. Isn’t it interesting how many minor course corrections we do just moving around on foot? We scoot around carts, we pause for old ladies, we sometimes decide that we have the right of way at a given supermarket intersection, for no good reason except that we’re tired of being so damn accomodating all the time.
Being a gentleman, and wanting a glimpse of her ass, I hesitated for a sec so she could make the entrance ahead of me. I smiled, you know. Studly-like.
She smiled back, real big, like, Oh, hiii!
Something just wasn’t right. She had too much makeup-foundation, tan stuff that made her look like she’d been smothered in butter and gently pan-fried.
And too much jawline.
She was dressed conservatively, with a business-casual blouse and mid-calf dress.
Damn, with those calves, she should have gone full-length. She had calves bigger’n mine, and her legs were shaved smooth. Wide shoulders. Not much of an ass, to speak of, either. Yeah, I looked.
Cue music.
So, dude looked like a lady. But not much like one. I purposely ducked this person through the store.
But all evening, I was thinking about her. Him. I kept thinking, what the fuck was going on in that guy’s head. He didn’t even seem gay to me, brilliant smile notwithstanding. He seemed like a straight guy who must have gotten a sexual thrill from dressing like an executive assistant.
I think the smile was because Glen wanted me, a guy, to approve of Glenda.
I didn’t approve. It wasn’t morally wrong to me, just weird and unexpected in that context. I didn’t approve, but that doesn’t change Glenda’s right to dress how the hell ever his wild side dictates. Who is wrong, this guy, or the guy that is so flummoxed by the encounter that I’m freaking blogging about it? Well, I think we’re both wrong. Variety in the world is great. But needing to be liked for how you look, or even what you do, is a huge problem and removes us from our true selves and our true individuality.
A Lesson A Day 