*NB title stolen from the announcement above the comments section of this blog
I’m among the many ranks of folk who believe 42 is a serendipitous number. Whether or not serendipitous is a word remains in the ether.
I imagine a conversation between Douglas Adams and Hunter S. Thompson to be along the lines of the following…
DA – Did you see the size of that fritzickin cat Hunter? He’d claw those bats out of the gosh-darn sky…
HST – Y’huh. What is it about people writing fictional conversations between fictions of idols? I’m thinking ‘In the Soup’, but also that joke about the guy with the beard & the bicycle in Heaven not being God, but actually being Stanley Kubrick. You know that one Doug?
Verbal Celebrity Deathmatch & other stories. (While I’m thinking aloud, was the phrase ‘batshit mental’ originally written to describe Hunter S. Thompson?)
Serendipity. I don’t believe in it in a lame way like that lame film. In fact I don’t believe in it at all. It just gives me fly-by ideas to snatch at. I recently read Miranda July’s ‘It Chooses You’. I think she has it nailed. Casting a cat perspective in The Future in homage to the stray moggie they ran over. And then discovering the whimsy of the real-life characters that met at lake Paw-Paw.
It’s just another word for inspiration, which means artistes like myself and the tweeful Mus July can blame bad creative decisions on the chaos we trust to guide us.
In the second year of Uni I lived in Number 42. It was next to the entrance to one of the oldest cemeteries in England (a little derelict but still a fascinating haunt). It was the most fun year. The following year, the old house was consumed by damp and mould. The inside was gutted when we left.
Over & owt