The Fanstastic Ms. Fox

I can infer that stories are important to you people.

So I've heard about this. A dozen (not the actual number, the idea) people gather in a theatre to pal around, and maybe, if time permits, do something constructive. They fiddle with instruments, lie around on the stage and enjoy themselves. They are friends, together, waiting, hanging around and fooling around until Godot shows up.

I have heard about this. This calls for an unusually large apartment in a prominent American city, and zany hijinks.


A political convention. Triple-length room. Schmoozing. HUGE (in retrospect) projector screens with poll counts. Hand-shaking. Waiters. Cheese platters. A large number of people who are as hopeful as they are tired.

According to your Earth media, this calls for pork-pie hats, little American flags and a fatherly white guy in a suit. This man will give a stirring victory speech. I hope he shows up before the balloons go completely flat.


Extraordinary coziness. Murmured conversation let off the leash for the first time in a while. Safety here. A joy.

Something is supposed to go wrong. I think one of of us is tied to the mob or gets hit by a car or something. There will be tearjerking or vengeance or some combination thereof.


Fog coats the world. Cones of photons become visible in a new way. Atmospheric perspective becomes viable. Silhouettes of trees stand ethericly. Docks trail off into dim blurs.

I am surprised and a little disappointed by the lack of distant laughing or singing leading to a faerie-land, a howl and a werewolf attack or mobsters/government agents standing in the blare of a foghorn. This may be partially my fault, as I am not depressed, lost, or wearing a trenchcoat. I may still write a letter to my MP: "Dear sir..."


This is life. This is alright. Not that I could find the receipt anyway.