A Guy, a Computer, and Entirely Too Much Caffeine
Wednesday, 10 April • The Author Takes Your Questions
Q: So, any second thoughts now that you've made it to Day 2 of this exercise in content-free narcissism you call a blog? Suppose your family finds out? Or the neighbors? Have you no shame? Haven't you heard that Hades awaits those who spew blog-borne cyber-tripe on an unsuspecting world? And level with us ― is that your real hair, or what?
A: Thanks for asking. I have no idea how you got in here, but thanks for asking, just the same. And pardon my curiosity, but don't you think people are going to realize there's only one of us here, and that cleverly disguising our voice to pose questions is neither entirely effective nor remotely professional? Still, I'm all for the people's right to know, and always ready to entertain questions from the press. Even the imaginary press. What was the question again?
Q: Yes…well, let's move on, shall we? In spite of myself, I was most intrigued to learn that you flew to Boston over the weekend, then went on to Montreal. Am I to understand that you traveled to Canada to see a movie? I'm assuming it was a gala North American premiere, or some other irresistibly glamorous motion picture event. Can you fill us in?
A: Yes, I can.
Q: Uh...might you care to do so, then?
A: When's "then"?
Q: Now, perhaps?
A: Ah. I understand. Well, it's like this. Last week I did a movie search from my Excite start page, looking for movies within a ten-mile radius of my home here in Kansas City. The nearest hit turned out to be in Sherbrooke, Quebec. No kidding. Dandy search engine. From the same folks who gave us the search for Amelia Earhart, no doubt. As if I'm going from Kansas City to Sherbrooke, Quebec for a flick, right? No way! Montreal has zillions more screens to choose from ― plus scads more donut shops/hectare. As far as E. and I were concerned, the die was cast.
Q: And the movie?
A: Men with Brooms. A stirring docu-drama about beavers, bagpipes, and the pulse-pounding sport of curling. It was directed by Due South star Paul Gross, who also appeared in front of the camera. It's possible he meant to stay behind the camera, as directors are supposed to do, and merely wandered around in front of the camera by accident. In any event, his presence on the screen is responsible for the movie's impressive swoon-factor. At least that's how E. explained it to me.
Q: What's your verdict?
A: Well, I'm no Gene Shalit, but I found it a moving film. A moving picture, as they say. It was chock-full of pathos, humor, and shots of Paul Gross ― thank you kindly ― minus the Mountie uniform. I didn't know it, but apparently Leslie Nielsen is Paul Gross's father. So for Yours Truly it was a very educational film, too. There were also subtexts and undercurrents and sly allusions galore, not to mention several fine trailers. The theater (the conveniently-located Cinema 8, just off I-something-or-other) was very clean, and handsomely appointed with colorful posters informing patrons of coming attractions. The plush burgundy-and-gold carpet throughout looked showroom new, but had none of that awful odor that many new carpets seem to have. The bilingual staff was unfailingly polite, as required (so I later learned) by Canadian law. I still have the directions, if you'll be coming from Kansas City.
Q: I'll make a note of that. So - how many more days do you think this blog can last? I mean, isn't today's entry a clear sign of its imminent implosion?
A: Realistically? That's hard to say. It's true I'm concerned about maintaining this high level of creativity and reader satisfaction, but I'm not yet ready to throw in the proverbial towel. I owe it to my proverbial public to keep plugging away as long as the coffee holds out, and can use the practice to increase my typing speed. And tomorrow I'm itching to try my hand at recapping The West Wing in iambic pentameter. How'd you say you got in here? Please allow me to show you the way out.
Q: Thank you. [Editor's note: technically speaking, we're not convinced this is a question.]
A: Needle nardle noo. Don't mention it.
Posted by Spiffy Knickers - 4:51 P.M.
The Archives • The Perpetrator
©2002 Jerry Armstrong