We Are the Makers of Music, We Are the Dreamers of Dreams...

Conversation overheard at a coffee shop yesterday:

-- It's really sad about Gene WIlder. But it's spooky too because I just heard his song on the radio yesterday.
-- Which song?
-- "Friday I'm in love."
-- They play that every Friday.
-- Yeah, but yesterday was Sunday. And then he died.
-- He was so great in "Blazing Saddles."
-- Was that before the Cure?
-- Maybe. They talked about a lot of stuff he did on the news, but they didn't mention that.
-- I'm happy for Gilda Radner, though.
-- I wonder if she liked "Friday I'm in Love."
-- Maybe he wrote it for her.
-- Yeah, probably.
-- And "Young Frankenstein."
-- I don't know that song.

And at that point I left. Because after determining that these people somehow believed Gene Wilder and the lead singer for the Cure were the same person, I worried the stupid might be contagious.

Long Blue Shadows of the Jackals

And eyes like ice don't move...

Sheila stands with a chainsaw in her hand.

I walk up to her. “How do you know where to cut?”

She stares at the block of ice before her.

“It’s easy,” she says. “I take away everything that doesn’t remind me of a man.”



She fires up the chainsaw and quickly cuts the heart out of the block of ice.

I want to tell her she’s made a mistake, but I hold back.

Let her discover it herself.

She turns off the chainsaw. Turns with a smile. Pronounces it done.

I raise an eyebrow, questioningly.

“I’ve never met a man who actually had a heart,” she says.

And she walks away, leaving the heartless block of ice in her wake.