Yesterday, Beanie made a comment that she thinks people aren’t necessarily rude but distracted by technology. Everywhere I go, I see people with their iPhone or iPads or cell phones, oblivious to the world around them. By being more connected, many seem less.
Are we losing the Art of Listening?
Shall I start then?
Hanging from the rafters like a slab of beef, Illya Kuryakin decided that this was quite probably the worst situation, unless you took into effect that one time he was cornered in the Tunnel of Love with that group of crazed squirrels , the time Napoleon rescued him from the jaws of certain death by a lawnmower or even the time he tipped over Mr. Waverly’s tea right into his humidor – a moment when Illya saw his life, the life of his parents and grandparents and quite possible that of his ancestors dating back to the Dark Ages, flash before his eyes.
Illya's head was pounding from the poison he had unwittingly ingested, thanks to Angelique and her gift of spider-venom-laced vodka--a throbbing, mind-numbing pounding of a headache that reminded him of those annoyingly percussive (not to mention arrhythmic) timpani drums he was forced to endure once in the final moments of Tchaikowsky's famous 1812 Overture, a less-than-adequate performance inflicted upon the general public by an amateur orchestra in Peoria, Ohio that Mr. Waverly, curse his cruel heart, had ordered him to play oboe in as part of an assignment to flush out the notorious THRUSH overlord, Gerhard Manheim and his team of woodwind-wielding saboteurs.
Illya in a bright pink tutu and Napoleon in fluorescent orange leotards danced into the broken warehouse where the bad guys were holding Bozo the clown who had witness them killing the Cheshire Cat while the two UNCLE agents silently called Mr. Waverly names under their breaths because of his orders to come in this way with the hope that it would throw Thrush off their game, but the men knew that the enemy, who out numbered them greatly, would be laughing so hard that they would keel over and the two won't have to lift a finger to overpower them and take them prisoner.
"Is that Godzilla wearing a two piece," asked Illya, momentarily befuddled, "and why is he doing the Mashed Potato?"
The wind was still howling around the pillars supporting the elevated section of the subway track as Napoleon exited the "The Munchkin Munch-in" diner with a cheery wave to the owner, a particularly well-endowed Serbo-Croatian with crooked teeth and a Farrah Fawcett-Majors' hairstyle that wouldn't have looked out of place in any Aaron Spelling series from the 70s, but did looked decidedly out of place in downtown Disco, Tennessee, despite the fact that one could quite easily be forgiven for expecting disco and a bouncy, feathered, blowdry to sit more comfortably together, although on a six-foot-one, ex-wrestler, the effect admittedly required a significant stretch of the imagination to succeed, but Napoleon was preoccupied with more pressing matters as he made his way along the deserted street to where a brown sedan was parked and inside which his famished partner was waiting impatiently for the American to end his unhappy isolation and unexpectedly protracted fast, preferably with a 'Wizard of Oz' waffle (or three), by way of compensation for having spent an uncomfortable night crossing the country in a completely mis-named sleeper train in order to surveil the satrapy that THRUSH had set up in the nearby subway station which had left both men tired and dishevelled and acutely aware of the fact that they were not in Kansas any more.