Thursday, June 09, 2005

Ohhh... I Get It. He's At the Bottom of a Well.

Russell Crowe apologized. No, not to me. I didn't call the cops on his sorry ass. To Nestor Estrada, the concierge at the Mercer Hotel, who took the brunt of Crowe's personal misery in the form of several stitches to his face.

Okay, well... Maybe "apology" is a strong term. He actually said, "I wasn't aiming at him." So, I take back what I said before -- I guess his hand-eye coordination hasn't improved. He says he makes no excuses, then goes on to say that he lost his cool because he'd been traveling for 20 hours straight, couldn't get a phone call through to his wife, and, well, "there's nothing you can say to people to explain the combination of jet lag, loneliness, adrenalin."

Apparently, since he couldn't explain it verbally, Crowe felt that the next-best way to communicate it was through interpretive dance -- one that crescendoed with a phone being applied forcibly to Mr. Estrada's cheek. As an artist, I can understand the need for an artist to cross from his primary medium into a secondary one to make his point. I think it's also safe to say that we all now comprehend a little more fully the effect of jet lag, loneliness and adrenalin. I know Mr. Nestor Estrada does.

I don't know about Nestor, but I'm fully prepared to accept Crowe's "apology," qualified though it may be. I'm ready to let bygones be bygones, to lay the past down and move forward in the spirit of kinship and brotherhood. Words cannot describe my willingness to forgive and forget, to reach out and embrace a fellow human being who's at the bottom of a well.

And, since words cannot describe it, I've choreographed a little interpretive dance. Let me see... where did I put that chain saw?


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