As the Scientology Gods would have it, I’ll be seeing Hairspary twice in the next 24 hours. I had already planned on the movie before finding out I’d be accompanying a Performing Arts fieldtrip to the musical.

I used to think the most shuddersome sight was a clown at midnight. Now I think it’s John Travolta in a fat suit and moo-moo—time of day doesn’t matter. (Although midnight, against a lamppost, would have a terrifying effect. Especially if he’s whistling a slow Kill Bill-ish version of “We Go Together.”)

I doubt I’ll enjoy Hairspray because it has two things I don’t find funny: John Travolta and fat suits. Fat suits are on the rise as a comedic devise. But they make me feel uncomfortable and guilty of something, like the time my friends and I raided W’s closet, found his then girlfriend’s secret stash of S&M costumes, and masked up for pictures in his kitchen. (No, I will not be posting these pictures.)

Am I the only one not laughing? Why are people in fat suits always dancing? I have never worn a fat suit, but in middle school, I did put on as many layers as possible so I could win first prize on Crazy Dress Day. It was hot and hard to walk and didn’t particularly make me more amusing to anyone. And changing for gym was a bitch.

I imagine it would be emotionally taxing as an obese person to sit through a fat suit movie. When the thin suit gets developed, and someone like Jessica Simpson wears it to play Karen Carpenter, will brittle and bony be funny too?

Wednesday night I leave on a 15 hour bus ride to Ohio, where I’m kidnapping The Bearded Whorl from summer camp and driving him, along with left over art supplies and board games, back to New York. I’ll try to write a Greyhound poem. I’m bringing whiskey and a guitar and my friend Bobby. We’re mapping out our return via rental car the way Kirtsten Dundst did in Elizabethtown. I have my heart set on the two headed calf and Big Muskie’s bucket.

Today’s Lunch Poem comes from Pete. Was he taking off a fat suit?

4th Ave plate glass flashes
white onto Cooper Union,
shakes the trees between thunder storms

And down the rain comes
my shins of smooth pants
Locked heaviness

Those my shoulders revealed
uncovered beneath my shirt
then the hair, then my stomach

Is that it, flash
and more of me appears?
I step flash collect water

flash slowly exposed flash
if you watch me long enough
I’ll slow to a stop
and you can see me all