I've been a little writerly blocked up lately. It's irksome. Last night I dreamed I had become friends with Patton Oswalt, although I didn't recognize him until I woke.
In any event, he was my new, real life friend! And we were walking down a street at night, and he looked at me and said, 'ok, GO!', basically asking me to riff on anything, it was an audition for his friendship, this is what I remember saying.
Plus added fluff, because, really, who remembers their dreams?
I like blue drinks, the sort made by marginally paid scientists who's last work involved Dow chemical and horrific civilian casualties in some easily coerced Banana republic. Something that rings with a metallic taste and the undefinable comforting finish of something entirely man-made. Like the Constitution, the GMC Gremlin, and Lisa Carlise. Centuries of science and civilization and experimentation and the march of humankind bolstering a colour of drink that would only be found in nature if nature happened to have a lab full of copper sulfate.
It's not that I'm particularly pro-science, or pro-industrial chemical engineering, but literally years of bathroom cleaning product television advertising has convinced me that blue is the colour of the clean and fresh future; even if it's not that of what is always hopefully labelled 'berry' flavoured.
Or maybe it's my love of science fiction. Blue drinks always feature prominently in shows made with plenty of gold painted styrofoam, looped space battles and heroes who should have died from space VD about three seasons ago. It's like somewhere in our ape brain a fuse is being blown when we even consider an aqua marine drink. It shouldn't exist, it's existence refutes millions of years of hunting and gathering and eating reasonably coloured food. But no, there it is: BAM, the blue of progress, the blue of clean bathrooms, the blue made possible by trace amounts of a chemical banned in Europe due to it's nasty tendency to cause severe pancreatic failure.