Jerry paces the stage screaming the hassles of making plans and going out, all those questions involved, those tiny dilemmas. Mr. President in town, and traffic clogged interstate arteries and stopped stoplights, I could’ve avoided the Fourth Street mess, stayed in bed, because as Jerry says, we love to lay, and WE LOVE BED!!! Damn, am I glad I didn’t. Wouldn’t I have smiled an hour and a half less. Wouldn’t that have been foolish, because look, look, at Jerry Seinfeld, 60-year-old balding genius of comedy (in the game since 21) screaming.
He’s screaming, and his voice cracks, and his eyes are wide, and his teeth are bared with a look of pain and intensity in that Seinfeld way, and he’s pointing, he’s pointing at YOU, and he’s screaming the war that is eating late-night cookies, the drunk that’s drinking alcoholic coffee, the bizarre nature of so much food, the bizarre nature of nature, human nature, human connection, circuses, and sinkhole relationships (the last two = maybe the same thang). What’s beautiful is everything.
The personification of Pop-Tarts; the comparison of marriage to playing chess on a water board where all the pawns are smoke; the way that Jerry uses his body, moving his arms around to make that smoke dissipate into thin air. What’s beautiful is how the world around is nowhere and how The Palace becomes tiny, because there’s only one possible thing to focus on and that’s Jerry, all that buzzing creativity, positivity, breaking everyone into life, laughter. And isn’t that just GREAT!!!
