| x | X-treme Ferris Wheel |
| x |
I'm at a warm seaside resort that I perceive as being in southern Virginia. Apparently I've been here before, because in my absence they've switched the men's and women's beachside changing rooms, and I walk into the men's area. I realize this when I see an androgynous, curly-haired person shaving; I apologize and go to the women's room, which is much fancier. People are getting eucalyptus-oil massages. I want to tell the androgynous shaver that, once he's shaved, he should come here to get a massage. Nobody will know the difference. I wander to a hotel by the beach, where TV luminaries like Phil Hartman (he's alive!) and Conan O'Brien are milling about. I tell them I have a good idea for a new talk show -- it would only feature guests who've never before been on national TV, guaranteeing the freshest authors, bands, actresses, etc. "That's great!" they say. "You write the first episode!" I panic and run back to the seaside. On the beach, there's an event in which pairs of DJs -- all hipster couples -- are competing in an "X-treme DJ" contest. There's a Ferris wheel fitted with a turntable, and the two DJs have to sit on each side of the turntable and play a record of their choice. Then the Ferris wheel starts churning around quickly and violently, so the DJs' seats rock back and forth. Their challenge is to hold the turntable so it can play an entire song without the needle skipping. The song is broadcast over loudspeakers to everyone on the beach. I clamber up a high scaffolding structure to watch the next couple, who have curiously chosen to play "Band on the Run" -- by Neil Young. (Did he ever actually do that? I don't think so...) I've climbed higher than the Ferris wheel, and there's a great view of mountains in the distance. They're the smoky-blue color that only faraway mountains are, and they're lovely. Then I realize people are pointing up at me because they're afraid I'm going to fall. I climb down. The couple wins. |
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