This was published in the May 5, 2018 edition of the Joplin Globe.
I’m typing this on a park bench somewhere in Northwest Arkansas.
A week ago, I was typing my column sitting at a table inside the Billy Goat Tavern in Chicago.
To paraphrase the great W.C. Fields, “On the whole, I would rather be in Chicago.”
I don’t have anything against Northwest Arkansas, it’s just not where I envisioned being on a Friday morning. I envisioned typing this column from home, and when I was done, getting in the car and driving to St. Louis.
That was the plan, after all. But, as they do in a lot of families, the plan changed.
My wife has a work-related trip in St. Louis this weekend. The plan was for us to drive to St. Louis and go to my wife’s work-related event on Friday night. Then the plan was for us to go to another of my wife’s work-related events Saturday morning. Then my plan, after the work-related event Saturday morning was to drive to Busch Stadium and watch the St. Louis Cardinals play the Chicago Cubs.
All in all, a pretty good plan if I do say so myself. And I do.
But Tuesday my wife threw a major monkey wrench into our plans. Actually, it was not so much a monkey wrench as it was a King Kong wrench.
“Geena Davis is speaking at that event in Northwest Arkansas on Friday morning,” my wife said.
“What event?” I asked in a tone that meant “What event?”
“Oh, you know,” my wife said in a tone that suggested “I mentioned it to you once six weeks ago while you were watching a basketball game. I can’t believe you don’t remember.”
It turns out, my wife belongs to a group of women who periodically get invited to some big women-only gathering in Northwest Arkansas and listen to famous women talk about women stuff.
That’s probably not the official description of the gathering, but it’s my description.
“I thought we were going to St. Louis on Friday,” I said.
“We are,” my wife said.
“So you want me to drive you to Northwest Arkansas, cool my heels for a couple of hours, then drive you to St. Louis?” I said.
“Yes,” my wife said.
“I see,” I said, even though, as I’ve indicated many, many times in this column, I didn’t see.
So while my wife is inside some large building getting to hang with Geena Davis, I’m sitting on a park bench writing this column.
Sigh. Oh well, to quote Marty Feldman: “It could be worse. It could be raining.”
First of all, it seems to me that if anyone is going to meet Geena Davis it should be me.
Geena Davis is tall. I’m tall. Geena Davis is smart. I’m tall. Geena Davis is beautiful. I’m tall.
We were made for each other. Besides, I just did a quick check and discovered that Geena Davis and I are the same age.
It’s fate is what it is.
But I’m not going to get to meet Geena Davis. Instead, I’m typing this column on a park bench.
Unless Geena Davis happens to walk by this park bench and is so taken with my appearance she stops to chat with me.
Wouldn’t that be something? I can picture the whole thing.
Geena Davis: “Hello.”
Me: “We’re the same age. Look, I’m tall too.”
Geena Davis: “SECURITY!”
That’s how I picture it.
After I finish this column, I need to find some place to gas up the car. Then I get to come back to this place and sit in the car for a few hours.
Later, when the event is over, my wife will get into the car and tell me how nice and sweet Geena Davis was.
“You would like her,” my wife will say.
Sigh. I think it’s starting to rain.