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#214

If I were to paint a mural on a domed ceiling somewhere, I think I would paint a glamorous portrait of Clara Bow in the summertime, her ivory wings spread wide as she gracefully hovers over a sunny meadow of chocolate bars, 5 1/4 inch floppy disks, and piles of unravelled 35mm nitrite film stock. Meandering through the meadow would be a golden river of Mountain Dew, where spazzy, wild-eyed mermaids would frolic and gambol. They'd be clothed with shells, sheer fabrics, long billowy hair, and braided, beaded eyelash extensions, and they'd use their crisp, lilting Enya-like voices to sing reggae hits in the gentle breeze. Meanwhile, in another part of the meadow, a trenchcoated Humphrey Bogart, standing next to a prop plane, would be bidding a tragic, self-sacrificing farewell to his one true love, the princess Buttercup, or possibly Julia Child. In the background, Indiana Jones, Lara Croft, and the Balrog would be busy whipping each other, and Jacques Tati, back to and absentmindedly scratching his head, would be regarding them all with curious puzzlement. I thought it might be nice to work in a chariot race somehow, but that would be going a bit too far, don't you think?