Chris Garcia came to Austin from the San Francisco Bay Area in 1998, the year of his first heat stroke. As the American-Statesman's movie critic, he is both loathed and dimly tolerated. Sandra Bullock, among others, will never speak to him again. He reads more than he eats, drinks more than he sleeps and breaks too many sticks when he drums.
Frequently using his tattered passport, he hasn't time for a dog but just enough for a rat named Tammy. He bit into the head of a chicken in China and plans to drink snake blood in Vietnam. He is a fervid animal lover.
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17
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
By Chris Garcia
| Wednesday, June 17, 2009, 12:09 PM
The Sea Monkeys have thinned out, natural selection has selected. A sole surviving water simian remains in the small bowl on my desk, flapping his tendrily wings like a microscopic manta ray, whippy tail and all.
It’s a sad day at Sea Monkey manor. Algae the hue of fall limes blankets the glass walls and rests finger-deep at the bottom, a Day-Glo sediment, chalky, bloomy, thick. Salt encrusts the water line, and can be scratched off if anyone so wishes.
The last Sea Monkey is philosophical about his circumstance. He dives and arcs across the miasmic gunk, pondering the whys, working through the whats. His days are not gathering. He is losing time. He is the Omega man.
The Sea Monkey, diaphanous wisp, flutters round and round, knowing everything, without a clue.
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