”“I never heard of him.”“That’s not surprising. I believe that he was, more or less, a second rate celebrity, although I’m sure that he had a fan base. He had to quit playing because of tendinitis. He died back when we were getting out of diapers,” Danny said.“That’s kind of a weird legacy.”“I suppose it is,” Danny said. “He was actually a little better educated than your average musician. He studied the language, culture, and history of Serbia-Croatia. He went to Yugoslavia and did some work there until everything blew up with NATO bombing the hell out of the area.”“I guess even second rate celebrities get labeled and have to live with it.”“Yeah. I sometimes wonder if his music was actually his hobby rather than his calling.”“So is photography going to be your hobby or calling?” Steve said gesturing to the camera.“I don’t think it will be either. I’m not going to run out to buy an expensive camera, that’s for sure. This is just an assignment from the art teacher.”“Do you mind a. You could buy a nice new Volvo for the price of a nice dinner up there, or so I soon heard. So, my first night in London I was confronted with either Hooters or the Nice Place. The thought of eating wings again weighing heavily on my mind, and being a modestly adventurous sort, I thought the French place was more my kind of place. Perhaps in time I’d be pelted with snails swimming in garlic butter, but so what. Garlic, I assumed, had to be better than Tabasco. That’s how life goes when you jump out of your routine and into the fire. How do we get used to choosing between bad and the unknown. And how do we grow comfortable with such lousy points of view. Well, enough philosophy. No, let’s talk physics for a moment. Yes, Physics. You remember, of course, that heat rises? Well, odors don’t rise, as a rule, they sink like a stone and spread like lava, and I assume garlic simmering in white wine and butter has a specific gravity somewhat heavier than plutonium. Quail turds in a tartly.
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