Pausing in the doorway to the den, she asked,”Why are you watching the end of Nine and a Half Weeks?”
“I’m trying to figure out what the hell happened to Mickey Rourke.” I sipped my coffee without looking up at her.
Sitting carefully on the couch, she cradled her coffee with both hands, bringing it close to her mouth without drinking. “Almost three decades of poor decision making, no impulse control, and too much plastic surgery.” She closed her lips over the rim of her mug and drank.
“That explains it.” I nodded as the syrupy melodrama of the final scene dripped from the television screen. “Next up, Blade Runner.”
“So you can wonder what happened to Harrison Ford?”
“And Rutger Hauer.” I added.
“You just really like Dick, I think.” She leaned back and chuckled.
“Yes, I’ve always been particularly fond of Philip’s work.” I turned and looked at her, adding, “Although, if you’d prefer, I think the Sundance Channel is showing Dune. In its entirety. Widescreen format.”
“Then we could watch giant sand worms explosively emerge from beneath the desert floor. All to the mellow sounds of Toto.” She paused before adding as an afterthought, “and also wonder what happened to Kyle MacLachlan.”
“Or,” I paused significantly, “We could try to unravel the mystery of how Patrick Stewart seems to not be aging.”
“It’s the years of Earl Gray (Hot) and all that time he spent in an interplanetary, cooperative government based on the enrichment of society as a whole.” She nodded. “Also, the Spice. It’s a drug. It’s a poison. It’s what gold-pressed latinum actually is. Which would explain a lot about what’s wrong with the Ferengi.”
“We could have a David Lynch marathon.” I suggested.
“I don’t think,” She mused, “That the fabric of space-time is strong enough to contain that much Brian Eno and references to trans-dimensional evil dwarfs. Just sayin’.”
“Satan?” I queried.
“Nah, he’s far too low key and normal for David Lynch. I do think Q and he would love each other, though. They have so much in common.” She sipped her coffee, and settled back into the couch cushions. “So…Dick?”
“Technically, it’s Mr. Scott. But who’s keeping score?” I changed the channel, sloughing away the empty smarm of Mickey Rourke gazing soulfully from a high rise window.
“My schedule for today lists a six-hour self-accusatory depression.” ~Philip K. Dick, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?