Roberta sat in the boardroom, trembling in

Roberta sat in the boardroom, trembling in her designer dress. Had her brilliant deception been uncovered or was the boss about to give her a

n assignment that would take her on an overseas jaunt leading to the peripheries of other continents, not so much deeply into their interiors but more than just a few miles in?

But then she realized she had just voluntarily used the word "Jaunt." Zombie-Sherlocke-Holmes rode in on a lightening bolt, torched her and shrieked, "pretentious!"

I looked at the story board. Would Mr. Downey Jr be able to play a Zombie Sherlock Holmes? Sure, he was a big star and zombies were in, but the Arthur Conan Doyle estate is

rich enough to afford three lifetimes of opium and heroin, and frankly the premise had been milked when Sherlock was still in books. The Mouse Detective revived it briefly, but TV

angst and swishy romance to spice things up. It transcended the unusual, paraded through the mundane with an air of oblivion. The critics ate it up because they couldn't understand

how deep and lasting ennui could open up such unusual possibilities. They simply could not fathom minds so unlike their own. Minds so utterly incapable of

vastness or the consideration of transitory details in the context of the passing aeon's music, or of remembrance of previous cycles. We could only look upon them across the gap th

at separated us forever. We may never exist in the same galaxy, but we shared one thing anyway: a passion for Tina Turner.