Golden Globules

 Golden Globules 

Nils Sundstrøm is Axel’s brother, younger by a year. (There were five of them, Axel,* Nils, April, Mai, and Sigirid. There still are - five of them.)

     The brothers both became Lutheran pastors, but Nils has left his church. Whether he has demitted or left the church I don’t know. But he’s left his church and come to live with his brother. Neither is married. Neither has ever been married as far as I can tell. They’re both fusspots.

Corner Coffee

Or, Axel is; and Nils may be. He seems to be, but I have just met him - I shouldn’t rush to judgment.

     I met both of them for coffee this morning. Axel was surprisingly light-hearted and therefore said little. Nils was anxious and angry. He lit on the Golden Globe awards as the reason; but it was not the cause, I am almost certain.

He said, chirping between coughs:

     “I don’t watch award shows, so why do I read about them? I don’t watch, I can’t see why anyone would. And I wish no one did, then I wouldn’t have anything to read - about them and the vain, vaporous snark that passes in the coverage for middlebrow wisdom. Deeper than a puddle but not as deep as a well. Drainage-ditch deep. Wise-dom.

     “Read the speeches out of the splash of the context: one emotional cliché (emocli - how’s that for a word? Write it down, trademark it for me.), one emocli gurgling after another. A high school reunion only the cool kids get to go to. (Maybe the AV Club, so they can have it on the record.) The cool kids. The cool, cruel kids.

     “Headline this morning: Hollywood Does What Washington Can’t (to Frank Bruni’s piece in the New York Times). (Note that I don’t say The Times. That's Easternnese; I limped here - to impose myself on my poor brother - from west of the divide.) Hollywood Does What Washington Can’t - because in Hollywood there are no consequences. They don’t have to do anything about what they say. Should read Hollywood Says What Washington Doesn't.

     “Again, the cool-kids-only reunion. They can say about the warm anything they want; there are none of us - the not-so-damn-cool - none of them [He made a face as if he'd bitten into raw rhubarb.] none of the deplorably great unwashed there to invite them (the oh-so-cool) outside and, if they dismiss the invitation with the wave of a hand [He gestured with the back of his, a graceful whine, “Please. Please, fuck-off.”], to punch them in the nose right then and there.

     “Self-satisfaction: it’s not a trait you’d think people would want to put on display.”

He held his fuck-off index finger up, took a sip of coffee: “What do interpretive artists - actors, especially - have to be self-satisfied about anyway? It escapes me completely. They are all prostitutes to creative artists first and to their drooling public foremost.”

     He paused: “And don’t suggest I don’t know what I’m talking about either. I was a preacher, remember.”

01.08.18

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 * For the full Axel story, click here and follow the links.