At one time it was known as Xiā Xiǎo Chuán. In its final days it went by name of Zhōng Guó Xiǎo Chuán. And then, nothing but empty, boarded-up shack.
On the worktop, beneath a bank slip, lay £400 in cash. Misplaced or forgotten by some scatty student, obviously. Professor Jones and Somber deliberated for several moments. They traded imaginative ideas of what riches they could buy in High Street. But not being the lucripetous sort, they turned in the dosh to the Authorities.
Artist. Architect. Engineer. From the Tuscan village of Vinci came Leonardo, bringing his genius unto the world. With his Renaissance legacy, many see fit to name things after him. In this case, a pizza parlour.
Leonardo’s, a Baxter Street neighbour of P-Bones, was a long-time favourite hangout for locals and high-schoolers. That is, until the Curse of Baxter cast its sombre pall, as it does eventually upon burghers and good merchants of these environs. Either that, or just bad business decisions were made.
Yep, time again for anecdotal vignettes:
• A melted Brie deep-dish pizza, its buttery fluid seeping into the stained wooden tabletop. • A waitress bellies up to the table with the cheque, cigarette ashing down on her crusty tunic. • The new owner, flushed and sweaty, grins vacantly for the camera; his eatery is to be featured in some piddly shopper advertorial. Photo Editor: “Was this guy stoned when you took the picture?” Photog: “I think he was stoned when he bought the business.”And now, an opportunity for applied theory:
In art class, Mr Dugan would speculate on how people from the fourth dimension would appear. With time being a constant, everyone would simultaneously be everywhere they had ever been and everywhere they would ever be -- much like extremely long worms.So, what might a 4-D amalgam of a closed time loop look like here in Leonardo’s? Risking lysergic undertones, one might see our baked proprietor, eyes mirthfully upon the ceiling; his body the Infinite Vermicelli, forever slathering in a sea of gooey Brie whilst cigarette butts bob like slo-mo buoys all the way to the horizon.
‘Leonardo would be turning in his grave if he could see what was being done in his name,’ one might think. Actually, since this scenario is timeless, he would be there himself, spinning on the ground -- breakdancing, you might call it --given he could find adequate floorspace. Or maybe he’s doing the backstroke.
A veritable temporal sfumato.
Cheque, please.
• am Heck auf Vierwaldstättersee
We're screaming together,*Sung to the tune of “The Final Countdown” by Europe.
(P)1986 Sony Music Inc. ©1986 Screen Gems / EMI Music, Inc.
During the Tenth Stratum, the Jung Technocrats sat at the Round Table riffing on campaign dissemination possibilities. Many of these ideas were simple defensive memetics against Pinks, mall-variety khoogs and Jr. BubbaCabal initiates.
