“‘Emperor Tomato Ketchup’ I found out is like the title of an experimental film by this guy Shuji Terayama, and the recurring drawing of that guy from the ‘Switched On’’s and stuff is taken from a leftist Swiss comic strip,” went the conversation about the band Stereolab. Scott was talking to friends who likely did not care about these discoveries, and Scott knew this. He hopelessly tried to add in details that would excite any passive listener into at least a mild interest. His friends feigned interest, though wished not to encourage the continuation of the topic. Not knowing about Shuji Terayama or the stolen origins of the Switched On drawing, they were comforted by the fact that they knew things that Scott did not know. What Scott maybe failed to realize was that, while he was learning this, his friends were learning something else. The world was made up of obscure facts, which certain people knew and exchanged, and well known facts, which were treated as obvious and implicit. Until, that is, a glaring blind spot of someone’s was made known to others and met with incredulity. The left nozzle controls the hot water, Hasidic women are wearing wigs, and so on. To know about Emperor Tomato Ketchup (1971) but not this… was baffling. When Scott was 14 he liked to draw. He was only good at perspective drawings of desert roads that receded into the horizon straight back, alongside one powerline and sporadic cacti that steadily got smaller. He slowly outgrew this phase and expanded towards fictional characters, concepts that fell victim to whatever artistic mutations came from their rendering. Faces intended to be happy would become quizzical, well-defined legs would take on some kind of dystrophy. However, his true foible as an artist was the mouth. Oftentimes mouths were redacted all together, creating a tableau of censored or gagged persons. He was worried about how this would come off though, so he switched to cars. The BMW 2002 was his default imitation. Three years earlier, his mother had described Martin Scorsese as a man who had seen every movie. Ignoring the obvious fact that he was primarily famous for making films, because no one had told him, Scott interpreted this statement to mean that Martin Scorsese had seen literally every film ever made and that was his role in the world and that his job would never cease so long as new moving images were released. As Scott told this to two girls at school in the cafeteria, he debated internally as to if the school’s own security camera footage constituted a movie. Well, he might as well watch those movies, too, so as not to be susceptible to hearsay from critics, Scott decided. He imagined Scorsese this sort of Guinness-book entry figure that was famous in spite of indifference and chagrin from the celebrity firmament that was made up of the conventionally attractive and/or well-connected. In his head, Scorsese, bless his heart, probably resembled other every-man public figures like Jared from Subway or a state government official. Scott was now older and knew not only Scorsese’s work but also knew what he looked like. He had also learned more obscure things. He had recently learned something obscure he hadn’t told anyone yet. He wasn’t even planning on telling anybody for that matter, as he had ruled everyone he knew too provincial to even have this fact shared with them. He couldn’t have them go and make it obvious to everyone around him. He was saving the fact for the right person. It would keep him safe in even the most intimidating company. It was a talisman; it was a trump card. In the meantime, he could always impress Stereolab fans.