Friday, November 7, 2008

On Michael Crichton (but not a eulogy)

Someone once told me (retold as I remember the conversation but most likely not verbatim):

After graduating from Harvard, my husband and I moved out to L.A. to try to make it as writers. My husband, in a bold move, decided to cold call Michael Crichton and ask him out to lunch. He actually accepted.

They went out to sushi later that week, and all Michael Crichton wanted to talk about for two hours was how much better L.A. was in the 60's because you could tear down the highways as fast as you wanted without worrying about getting caught and have sex with as many women as you wanted without getting AIDS. I mean, I know he probably wanted to tell the young buck about his glory days, but my husband is a skinny little Jewish guy who came this close *sticks out thumb and index finger till they almost touch, starts talking in nasal voice* to going to med school.

I've never read a Michael Crichton book or seen a Michael Crichton movie, not even Jurassic Park, so this is all I have to go on. I like to compare it to James Fallows' goodbye post.

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