I said to the, like, 20-year-old behind the counter at the video store, "Even Marky Mark and his funky bunch of astronauts - in white briefs with their pants around their ankles no less - couldn't jazz this one up." He stared at me vacantly. So then I said, "You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you."
"Uh, strangely enough, actually I do," he mumbled.
"Really!" I said, hopefully.
"Yeah, um... I think my mom told me."
"Oh," I said weakly, "Your... your MOM?!?"
"Yeah, she's always telling me stories from the old days. I think she was trying to discredit Mark Wahlberg or something because she thought I thought he was cool."
"I see," I said, realizing that for this kid, stories of Marky Mark blooming out of his trousers in the late 1980s were like teepee-fire tales of Hiawatha, and all the deeds of the Old Ones, spiraling downward through the evening twilight even as the pale gray smoke spirals up into the slate blue of evening, in the days that are forgotten.
One day all memory of the deeds of the faint beforetime will be gone from this vast black universe - all memory of the fact that there was once a tiny blue marble, and on this marble there was a land, and in the land there was a town, and in the town there was Marky Mark with his pants down.
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