Musings of a Restless Mind

I was able to attend San Diego’s famous Comic-Con this year, and at one of the mixers for creatives, someone asked, “Where do you get your ideas?” I didn’t have long enough to launch into a full explanation, but I’ll leave you this essay where Sharon explains it more thoroughly.

Once my wife Sharon was a guest at a local SF Con, and she was on a panel discussion of Where do You Get Your Ideas?

The panel consisted of a young writer at one end next to a professor of Rhetoric who fancied himself (and dressed) like a pirate, Sharon, and another local writer at the other end. As the discussion started, Sharon said she could see me bouncing in my seat because we’d had a conversation at dinner the night before that provided the perfect example. I so wish I had recorded what followed on my phone. I had started recording and then put my phone away to save the battery as the panel droned on, the young writer trying and failing to say something profound, the Rhetoric Professor/Pirate spewing a long philosophical monologue that seemed to cause the other local writer at the end of the table to doze off (he doubtlessly had partied too heartily the night before) although he managed to keep his eyes open until nudged and then said something about rewarding himself for a few pages of good writing by letting himself write pornography.

Sharon contented herself with mostly making sharply observed comments about what the others said, until it came time for concluding remarks, and Sharon, with her always perfect timing, calmly pounced with a mischievous smile on her face like that of a lioness leaping to take down an oryx. I should have whipped out my phone, but I was too unfamiliar with how to record video on the phone and couldn’t take my eyes off what was unfolding.

“Let me give you an example,” Sharon began, “Last night, my husband and I had dinner at the hotel. I saw they had my favorite entree, prime rib, on the menu, so I asked, did they put sage on it? Of course, like every other restaurant in America, they did, so I dejectedly found something else to order.

As the waitress left, I grumbled to my husband, ‘Why do they always put sage on prime rib? I hate sage!’”

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I grew up around here. Sage is a weed, not a spice. If you’ve ever walked through the hills around here, you’d come to hate the stink of sage.’

‘And rosemary on lamb. I hate rosemary! Somebody should make those herbs illegal!’

‘Good luck with getting them to do that,’ he replied.

Grumbling further, I then said, ‘When I rule the world, they’ll be outlawed, at least in restaurants.’

My husband just smiled at my go to ‘There ought to be a law’ comment and said, ‘Taking over the world would be a lot of effort. Wouldn’t it be easier just to be a mad scientist and take care of it yourself?’

‘Yes, I’d hire someone to create a molecule that would kill off all the sage and rosemary in the world.’”

Young writer is fascinated, the Pirate’s eyes spring open wide in horror. Local writer’s glazed look hasn’t changed.

“My husband pointed out that there might be ecological consequences to wiping out the 2 whole species of plant.

‘All right, then I’ll just have him insert a part of their DNA to make them poisonous.’”

Young writer is fascinated. “Oh my God,” Pirate says softly, maybe even being worried that my wife, the Chemist, could do that. Local writer’s eyes are still glazed.

“’What if that makes the bugs and animals that eat them unwilling to eat them, and they just grow everywhere and take over?’

‘All right, then I’ll have the molecule just poisonous to humans.’”

Young writer, grinning from ear to ear, is looking over at Sharon. Pirate literally starts banging his head on the table. Local writer’s glazed look hasn’t changed.

“’You really wouldn’t want to be responsible for killing anyone, would you?’ my husband asked.

‘Fine, then I’ll have the scientist use a molecule that just makes humans sick.’”

Young writer leaps up from his seat, throws his arm in front of the Pirate, pointing at Sharon, “That’s what I’m talking about!” Pirate rocks back in his chair, almost falling over muttering, “Oh my god, Oh my god.” Local writer startles awake, and swivels his head trying to get some idea of what just happened. Audience applauds wildly as they get up to leave. Husband grins from ear to ear.

I swear to you on a stack of bibles, that’s exactly how it happened. If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’.