Steel White Table

I subscribe to a MySpace blog by a guy named Colin Bruton (be warned: it’s a pretty hard-looking page). He’s a television producer who came to my attention through a filmmaker friend of mine. He initially used his blog to provide some practical tips for screenwriters and filmmakers. Then he ran out of practical advise and began telling about adventures he’s had as a cab driver and other things. I think he only bothers to blog about stuff when he’s drunk, though I could be wrong about that. His most recent post starts off:

As a smoker, whenever I get sick, or have a pain, or a twinge — or if I’ve got my dreaded piano recital coming up — I always fear that I have cancer. And then I resolve to eat healthy, work out, and go to church. Luckily for me, I’ve never had to truly deal with it, or the disturbing question of just which church would I go to. But here’s some of my imagined close-calls with the big “C”.

Then it gets gross. Later he talks about a recurring situation that always leads him to believe he’s got cancer:

I’ve been struggling through piano lessons for about three years now. I love it, but what I don’t love is when my wonderfully cool teacher insists that I take part in the annual piano recital that she makes all her students endure each year. For me, it’s especially humbling, because she goes in order of skill level, so there’ll be like a five year old, then a seven-year-old, then me, a 50 year old, then a six-year-old, etc. And each of the two years I’ve “performed” at the recital, on the day, I feel like I’m dying.

I’m not saying he’s gold, but his stories are funny and personable. Personable as in you feel like you know this guy just by the way he talks. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled if discovers I’ve blogged about him too.

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