David Lynch

Please don’t make ever me sit through another David Lynch movie.

I’m in the Jacuzzi at the Gym, bathing in a circular pool of hot grey urine and thinking — this is just like a David Lynch movie.

The room is cold, sterile, ceramic-tiled and has two horizontal windows above head height for windows like gunnery slits in a World War II bunker overlooking a beach at Normandy.

The water churns greedily with occasional bursting grey suds- a depressing contrast to the vodka-clear glassine water in the larger swimming pool with roped-off lanes in the next room.

The David Lynch version of this scene would incorporate the usual cast of intentionally obtuse characters, a very short man in a black suit with a pencil thin mustache, a one-armed traveling salesman, a bearded lady who laughs noiselessly — and a red velvet backdrop in the corner of the room with a single spotlight focused on a vintage microphone on a straight stand. Inevitably there would be an attractive blonde woman in her mid-twenties gently crying one tear at a time, as she watches me in the Jacuzzi.

Please don’t ever make me watch another David Lynch movie.