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I'm with a group of laid-back co-workers at the bottom of an empty, sun-baked swimming pool. We're supposed to be doing a project involving Macintoshes, and we've got hard drives, monitors, and printers at our feet, but we're hampered by the fact that there are no electrical outlets down here -- just lots of smooth concrete. We don't seem terribly concerned, though some of us try to look busy by picking up the cords, gazing around, and saying, "Hmmmm."
Above us, at the edge of the pool, appears a 14-year-old Deborah Harry, freckled and skinny and wearing a crocheted psychedelic halter top. Apparently somebody's told her an unfamiliar word. "I don't get it," she calls down to us. "What does 'fat' mean?"
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