I was sitting on a slow (redundant) downtown express bus this morning perseverating, I'll admit, about all the things I needed to do today. Being a freelancer is never having to say "I'm sorry." Or "I can't." Or for that matter, "You'll have it later."
It's an on-demand world, and the race goes to the swift, the strong and the well-prepared.
My mental to-do list was getting to the point where it was as long as Hadrian's Wall and I was feeling more than a little agita.
Marlon Brando got on the bus.
A perfect replica.
The same puglistic underbite.
The same concave pencil eyebrows.
The same beaten bomber's jacket he wore in "On the Waterfront." The only thing missing was the longshoreman's cargo hook my Brando didn't have affixed to his shoulder.
He pulled a can of Red Bull from his pocket.
And sipped at it.
Here's how the real Brando drank.
Here's how you treat a frail.
Pay especial attention at around 1:40 in.