Sdtrk: ‘I like Mozart’ by France Gall
This morning, like I’d said, I managed to stumble out of bed and successfully type out notes to my most recent dream. Hoorah!
It occurred during a morning in late Autumn/early Winter, cos I remember the light had that kind of super-clarity that you only get during the colder months. There wasn’t any snow on the ground, but it was definitely brisker than I like it. After walking along the stretch of small office buildings on northbound Livernois between Eight and Nine mile, I entered one of them. Soon, I was in a room about the size of your typical small office centre, where there were rows of desks, of the same sort that you’d find in school. There was even a chalkboard down the front. As I sat down in the rightmost desk at the front of the class, other people started arriving, and took seats of their own, and shortly after that, Boyd Rice entered with two other blokes, all of whom were wearing cold weather coveralls. They all sported either some kind of bag or backpack, and one of them went to the chalkboard and started writing things on it, whilst Boyd and the other bloke (Michael Moynihan?) began walking up and down the aisles, distributing papers and pamphlets to everyone. Boyd caught my eye, and he acknowledged me with a ‘Hey, Davecat,’ to which I gave a wave. The person sitting behind me had gotten up for a second to leave the room, so Boyd took a seat.
‘Hey Boyd, what’s been up?’
‘Man, I feel like shit. I’ve got this pounding headache, and my sinuses are all screwed up from this cold I’ve got,’ he replied, and I could see that his nose was indeed runny and puffy. There was a little bit of snot too; it was kinda gross. ‘But you ‘ll never guess what’s getting me through this.’
‘No — Pepto-Bismol! It coats everything, and it’s so pink and reassurring. In fact, I took some last night and it helped me get some writing done.’ He reached into his bag and pulled out a bubblegum pink notepad, with copious sentences written out in longhand in blue ballpoint ink. ‘Check out how much I wrote!’ He sectioned off about 3/4ths of the pad’s pages with his thumb and forefinger.
‘Damn! Not too shabby!’ I replied.
‘Also,’ he continued, ‘I’ve been speaking with some people, and it turns out they really want me in the role of The Master in the upcoming season of Doctor Who.’
I was impressed. ‘Wow. You’ve been busy! Which reminds me — I saw a flyer stuck onto a telephone pole that says you’re running for some kind of office?’
‘Yeah, actually, that’s why I’m here now, in order to speak to people.’
‘Well shit, I’ll let you do your thing, Boyd, and we’ll talk more when you’re done.’ And then he stood up.
‘Okay, cool, we’ll talk in a bit.’ As he got back to handing out pamphlets, I wondered to myself — I had seen that flyer on a telephone pole in Ferndale, which is in Oakland county. Now, since I live in Wayne county, would I be able to vote for him? *stroking chin*
And that’s it!
Hrrm.. Boyd Rice as The Master. On the one hand, he’s no Anthony Ainley, but on the other hand, he’s no Eric Roberts, thankfully. Plus, he has had a goatee in his life. And been accused of being evil incarnate.
Personally, I think he’d be better running for office. But what the hell kind of office would he find suitable? Furthermore, Ferndale is like a Fisher-Price city — it’s about two-tenths the size of Detroit. What kind of motions would Boyd pass, if elected?
I’m sure he could bring back the Circus Maximus, for starters