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This is more or less a snow day, so I was peaceably watching some Buster Keaton just now. Empty bag of popcorn there, remote here by left hand, mostly-empty can of Coke Zero in right hand. Smile at silent-movie antics, raise can, and... here's where I'm not 100% on the order of events. As best I can reconstruct: Trailing edge of can impacts leg, spins out of hand on continued upward trajectory. Hand, still rising toward mouth, grabs instinctively for can as eyes jerk away from TV, try to adjust light levels and locate action. Can does neat 180-degree spin and slaps into palm of hand, fingers/thumb close around.
Right-hand touch receptors: Target acquired, beep.
Eyes: Action, action... woah, have can!
Brain: Wow, nice...
1.2 fl. oz. liquid from inverted can: [Impacts lap]
And then I flailed around a bit with napkins and such, and eventually found the remote and paused Buster Keaton in the act of falling off a steamboat. This is exactly what the Parents Television Council is on about.
Right-hand touch receptors: Target acquired, beep.
Eyes: Action, action... woah, have can!
Brain: Wow, nice...
1.2 fl. oz. liquid from inverted can: [Impacts lap]
And then I flailed around a bit with napkins and such, and eventually found the remote and paused Buster Keaton in the act of falling off a steamboat. This is exactly what the Parents Television Council is on about.
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As always, I was in this restaurant, reading this book. Today, so-so chain barbecue, and an author on about the Beats, 'those fantastic open-sensed men with their slightly regrettable prose'. Heh. I look up.
As I do, the barbecue sauce I'm rolling on my tongue suddenly peaks, a little burst of hotness. There's something half-epic and half-emo crescendoing on the radio, drums and teen-pain. Over the bar, Iron Chef Bobby Flay slices a honeydew melon, a kinetic sculpture of knives and unconscious economy. A pretty purple-haired girl beams at someone off over my shoulder, and thrusts her hand forward to wave. It all washes over me in an instant. If Kerouac could see the... happy purple girl. No. If Kerouac could see Bobby Flay's, hang on, knives flash to the drumbeat knives don't come close to the drumbeat. If Kerouac... has pain. Wave of emo heat. Spicemelon. Kinetic epic Flay wave. Purple! None of these things go together! Gah!
Hey, remember when Batman did that thing? That was awesome. Mmm, Batman.
As I do, the barbecue sauce I'm rolling on my tongue suddenly peaks, a little burst of hotness. There's something half-epic and half-emo crescendoing on the radio, drums and teen-pain. Over the bar, Iron Chef Bobby Flay slices a honeydew melon, a kinetic sculpture of knives and unconscious economy. A pretty purple-haired girl beams at someone off over my shoulder, and thrusts her hand forward to wave. It all washes over me in an instant. If Kerouac could see the... happy purple girl. No. If Kerouac could see Bobby Flay's, hang on, knives flash to the drumbeat knives don't come close to the drumbeat. If Kerouac... has pain. Wave of emo heat. Spicemelon. Kinetic epic Flay wave. Purple! None of these things go together! Gah!
Hey, remember when Batman did that thing? That was awesome. Mmm, Batman.
Okay, about me. I was born, raised, and educated in the Eastern Oklahoma back-country, up among the hills. Hated school. Oklahoma was still a French territory at that point, and every morning the professeurs would force us to learn how Napoleon the Third invented the lightbulb, or how to count in metric. "Un... deux... trois point un sept deux un neuf (approx.)," we would drone dispiritedly. "...liters." Some of us would count in good American gallons in our hearts, as God intended - even as the school's heart-gallon-sniffing dogs snarled and tore at our flesh.
Then one day, one of the other students (Etienne, I think) discovered the dogs could be distracted if you thought about enough liver pate. Oh, how we thought about liver pate! We must have been a comical sight, eleven children and a comedy-relief orangutan all sitting there thinking about pate, twelve little brows furrowed, twelve little noses gushing blood. But it worked, and we were able to escape into the hills where we gamboled and played and petitioned President Roosevelt for statehood. Our story would later inspire the Rogers & Hammerstein musical Oklahoma and the Oscar-nominated 1974 film Papillon (starring Steve McQueen as Osmond Saxer and a young Johnny Depp as his top-hatted, inch-tall conscience). In a 2004 interview with New Hampshire Monthly magazine, Depp would muse: "Quite a guy, that Ormond. If I couldn't be Johnny Depp, I think I'd like to be a slightly different Johnny Depp. Ha! Psych! In your face, Sacker!"
Your time will come, Johnny Depp. Oh yes.
Then one day, one of the other students (Etienne, I think) discovered the dogs could be distracted if you thought about enough liver pate. Oh, how we thought about liver pate! We must have been a comical sight, eleven children and a comedy-relief orangutan all sitting there thinking about pate, twelve little brows furrowed, twelve little noses gushing blood. But it worked, and we were able to escape into the hills where we gamboled and played and petitioned President Roosevelt for statehood. Our story would later inspire the Rogers & Hammerstein musical Oklahoma and the Oscar-nominated 1974 film Papillon (starring Steve McQueen as Osmond Saxer and a young Johnny Depp as his top-hatted, inch-tall conscience). In a 2004 interview with New Hampshire Monthly magazine, Depp would muse: "Quite a guy, that Ormond. If I couldn't be Johnny Depp, I think I'd like to be a slightly different Johnny Depp. Ha! Psych! In your face, Sacker!"
Your time will come, Johnny Depp. Oh yes.
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