Loser's Guide to Life
What is your favourite ...
Yeah. I met Sting on an airplane once. Sat next to him. He was very quiet, reading a book. I think it was the latest Salman Rushdie. He smelt like peppermint, but that's because he couldn't stop eating these little individually-wrapped peppermints that he kept taking out of a bag as he read. They looked like the kind of mints that they give you with your bill in a restaurant, but I suppose if you're Sting, they would have to give you a whole bag. You know, “Wow. Sting. Have some mints. Have all of them.”
I think he was a lot smaller than I expected, but it's hard to say as he was sitting down the whole time. He appeared to be no more than five feet tall. Less, maybe. His feet didn't quite reach the floor. His little legs were just dangling there as he tore open mint after mint after mint and stuffed them into his mouth, engrossed in his book.
Come to think of it, the book was Fuckhead's Penguin, by Umberto Ugo.
I asked him where he was going, and he said “Omaha”.
“Let the farm grow its own two-headed monsters for a while!”—Bertolt Beckett