My favourite scene from the movie Fargo, which takes a spin on my DVD player everytime the temperature creeps above 28C, is when Marge Gunderson, the local police chief, is driving to the station with the murderer in the back seat of her car. It’s the dead of winter. It’s a complete white-out, and snow is pummeling the window. She says:
“So that was Mrs. Lundegaard on the floor in there. And I guess that was your accomplice in the wood chipper. And those three people in Brainerd. And for what? For a little bit of money. There’s more to life than a little money, you know. Don’t you know that? And here ya are, and it’s a beautiful day. Well, I just don’t understand.”
And it’s a beautiful day. That line never fails to crack me up. It’s so blatantly untrue, and yet Marge says it without a shred of irony. To her, it is a beautiful day.
It’s not that I love blizzards, or frigid temperatures, well, I do a bit…but my brain functions better when it’s cool. Right now, it feels like big bowl of warm goo, and my goo brain is having a hard time getting my goo body off the couch, which means the popsicles in the freezer will have to lick themselves. Oddly enough, as I was walking from 124St to 100St this afternoon, it started to spit rain. Big drops. Nothing substantial. No alleviation from the heat. Just blister-size spots of water on sweaty skin. Couldn’t help my goo brain from thinking snow thoughts.
It’s a Fargo day. And it’s a beautiful day.