Talking about real-life (and by real-life, I mean last week's LOST episode and Evangeline Lilly's husband-beaters. Nipples broke off in the crash, I guess. They're probably somewhere in Sawyer's stash. BTW, did you know in fake-real-life she's engaged to that guy with the smack-hobbit? I read that while Googling "Evangeline Lilly" nipples. Only 83,400 hits. That's not nearly enough to indicate that they're a major feature of the show, so I imagine they're not. I said hits, you degenerate. Hits I wouldn't mind caressing for a time.) has never much appealed to me. I like to talk about how I'd like real-life to be. Rife with questions as to who's encouraged me, who I've admired and who I've wanted to admire me, I must admit that I'm not the right Tom to ask. Let me loose the gag on my inner-child for a few minutes and I'll interview the little shit.
Q: Why did I want you to be a writer? You little shit.
A: I wanted you to be a writer because it seemed like a fantastic way to do everything else.
Q: What are me talking about?
A: When asked by adults WHAT DOES TOM WANT TO DO WITH HIS LIFE? BE A FIREFIGHTING ASTRONAUT WHO CAN CHANGE INTO A VENOM-FANGED PANTHER AT THE SLIGHTEST PROVOCATION? you'd always reply: Play Lego. What're you going to do with yours? Drink more brandy?
Q: You're not making much sense here... What was your actual reply?
A: I want to be a farmer. I want to be a vet. I want to be a submersed archaeologist. A samurai knight. A space-pirate. A drummer. A mad inventor. Peter Gabriel. A BMX trickster. A General. A court jester...
Q: You little shit...
A: Yes, it's my fault. I stuck with 'farmer' as the answer seemed the most readily unbelievable, and adults seemed chronic over that whole belief thing. Also, saying 'farmer' would make them clam up expeditiously. Then I thought about it, ate a few Lego pieces, and then thought about it some more and even morer after that. I notice you're not a farmer...
Q: I harvest woe. I plant and then supplant hope. I lead the tripe out to the pastures and train my dogs to train me...
A: And during the doldrums of inactivity that people occasionally call Thinking, you realized that I can do it all by becoming a writer. I mean, you seem most adept at inactivity... Also, I remember you seeing this interview with Roald Dahl, aged and crooked as he was, where he padded dodderingly down his garden path to his shed, coaxing the camera man behind him with a wave of his pajama-clad arm, opened the latch-locked door and revealed the most modest little cubby of a room. 'This is where I write' he said. There was a four-paned window overlooking one or two rosebushes, a small wood stove and a slanted desk. A few cups of cold tea and pencil shavings. You said to me: 'I like pajamas. This is what I want of your life!'
Q: Huh. Yes. I remember now... I always wanted to live in a shed. In a shed in a tree. In a boat-shaped shed in a tree. In a boat. In a tree in a shed on a boat in a tree. Yes... mou're so right. Oop, look at that. My! How time flies. I should put mou back... see mou later. Mou little shit.
A: . . .
And that's about it.