It has seemed for some time now that the world is hellbent on making campaigns of conversions -- not involving religion or philosophy, but making sure all normal and usual events are taken and converted into gibberish, transmuted into the surreal, then sprayed back at us like transmogrified clouds of pesticides.
Case in point: Clint Eastwood has come out for million dollar baby, Willard Romney, for President.
At first, I thought I'd accidentally tripped my bookmarked link for The Onion. I double-checked the page logos and address bar: Nope, the BBC.
Gravity did a squirrelly dip-and-dive just then, of the kind where, in getting a shock, there's a sudden impact -- the realization anything at all can happen, all physical laws repealed, events can come and go without explanation or reason.
* * * * *
The room dropped away. All of a sudden, I was Thelonius Monk, straight with no chaser, in a pink Cadillac, listening to Bird beat out the notes to some new tune called "White Hunter Black Heart," on the car radio, in the sizzling city heat.
I kept falling off all the bridges in Madison County, falling into the mystic rivers, all of my wet and multiple me's feeling like space cowboys: The stars fell on Henrietta, Casper -- a friendly ghost, seemed like -- and some of my me's.