I have this ongoing fantasy where I’m standing alone at dawn’s early light on Grayton Beach fishing for sharks. A lone walker approaches and it turns out to be somebody famous who asks about the fishing. I give a snappy, non-fawning, reply that indicates I recognize them.
The trouble with this fantasy is that the really famous are often stuck hanging out with the other really famous so as to avoid exchanges with the hoi polloi. Thus, a more realistic version of this encounter would be with the sort-of-famous. The sort-of-famous have the advantage of being able to go to good places with a fair chance of not having people like me inflict themselves upon them. So I’ve been planning for such an encounter with the sort-of-famous or the not-cleverly-enough-disguised really famous.
Michael Paul Chan: How’s the fishing?
SS: I hope you’re not still charging 85 cents for those sodas because I’ve got a baseball bat in the trash can over there.
Chris J. Barnes: Catching anything you ol’fart?
SS: You mean besides chatter from a passing smart ass kid actor?
Charles Bronson: What sort of fish are you after?
SS: Dumb.
Tom Scarritt: Are you the Sawed-off Sportsman?
SS: I’m a sawed-off sportsman; I wouldn’t want to be within the blast radius of the sawed-off sportsman.
Steve Harrigan: Catching anything?
SS: Does your being here mean I should be running for my life.
Clint Eastwood: Is this a good spot to fish?
SS: It feels lucky.
Harry Dean Stanton: Why don’t you go out to the sand bar and fish in deeper water?
SS: Because the further out you go the more things eat your horse.
Colette Hiller: How’s it going?
SS: In the pipe, five by five.
Rutger Hauer: What are you after?
SS: Moments.
Rutger Hauer: But won’t they just be lost like……perspiration in the sea spray?
SS: Ah yes, Roy’s regret; he needed a blog.
ML
10-8-07
Thursday, November 1, 2007
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