Here's a guest entry from my friend Frank, who, for some reason, prefers to be called Tidley McCobb. Some years ago, Tidley and I were enrolled in the same veterinary classes, until he was expelled for taking "animal husbandry" a little too literally. After a long absence, Tidley resurfaced, and his doctors now assure me he's doing quite well, and I'm in no danger as long as I don't make any sudden moves. So without further ado, and with the proper spelling corrections, here is Tidley McCobb's first blog entry, a review for The Count of Monte Cristo:
The Count of Monte Cristo is an adaption of Alexandre Dumas' famous novel, adapted for French television in 1996. It stars the supremely gifted French actor Gerard Depardieu, and is presented in four parts.
I remember the first time I had a monte cristo sandwich. It was in a restaurant in North Olmstead, Ohio, the birthplace of comedian Martin Mull. (I mean North Olmstead is the birthplace, not the restaurant where I had the sandwich.) It was a Friday, and it was raining.
The restaurant offered an all-you-can-eat buffet, but since I arrived after ten pm, the buffet was closed. Sadly disappointed, because I always enjoy a buffet, that lovely symbol of democracy, I decided instead to order a sandwich.
Menus are such a valuable metaphor for life itself. So many choices! I finally decided on a monte cristo sandwich, with turkey, and french fries on the side.
The monte cristo sandwich, with turkey, was good. The french fries, which were crinkle cut, were good, too. I prefer crinkle cut fries to fresh cut fries. Especially when they don't peel the potatoes. All those little eyes staring at me! It was also served with several kinds of jelly on the side. I chose grape jelly instead of strawberry preserves.
Personally, I like jelly more than preserves. I don't care for preserves. I don't like eating seeds. It's like I'm consuming potential life, and that makes me sad with the knowledge of an unjust existence. And the seeds get stuck under my bridge.
It continued raining while I ate my sandwich, with turkey. ( I mean the sandwich had turkey on it, not that it was raining turkey.) Suddenly I realized I had synchronized my chewing with the rhythmic dripping of a distant gutter. How strange, and yet, how not. I thought, we are all but cogs, a conduit, an ephemeral whisper on the gossamer wings of a butterfly, and I remembered reading that monte cristos were usually made with ham instead of turkey. Just one of the impenetrable mysteries of an indefatigable cosmos.
The Count of Monte Cristo was boring. I stopped watching after ten minutes.