Pepper Kester is a lesbian porn star. Or, mostly so.
Surface, surface, surface...
Round about, oh, say twenty-five years ago, there was a hole-in-the-wall record shop in Fairmount, Indiana called "Most Music." I'm going to assume it's long gone, although I couldn't say for certain.
There is an alternate universe in which it is still 1985 or 1986. MTV still plays music. Madonna and Cyndi Lauper are still, like, really hot; and the center of every small town social set is a weekend trip to the mall. Malls are big centers of shopping activity that encompass clothing, movies, books, arcade games, such as Pac Man and Frogger (spend them quarters, kids); food, drink, toys and, most especially, MUSIC. Music is everywhere, an endemic part of the shopping mall experience, as ingrained into the fleshly soul of every consumer as that weird, plastic, fresh merchandise smell (which invariably gets all mixed up with the smell coming out of the Cinnabuns, or the dank effluvia of the bath and body-works store).
Film critic the late Roger Ebert once famously quipped that the colors of the movie Videodrome were mostly "those of dried blood." That was perhaps overstating things, but not by much. It is, at any rate, one of those lines that has stayed with me since I first read it in an annual anthology of Ebert's reviews as a child, maybe more than thirty years ago.
Gentle leaves blow across Autumn yards pale as bone grass crunched under boot, and acrid smoke belches from old barrels full of newspaper and dry twigs.