"Jim Munroe - Flyboy Action Figure Comes With Gas Mask" - читать интересную книгу автора (Munroe Jim)

glad he wasn't bored silly, because it wasn't possible to leave that small
room without feeling
like a jerk.
But it was almost over, and the man was taking questions. One boy, his
face engulfed in
glasses, asked if it was OK to play with bugs, does it hurt them? Ken, looking
at the kid, said
*aw, what a cutie* to me.
"I don't know for sure, but I don't think so. I'll tell you what my
granddaughter does.
When she digs in the garden, she finds these June bugs sleeping just under the
surface -- they go
there when it's cold, you see, 'cause it's warmer there. She picks them up and
puts them in her
pockets," he mimed putting something in his cardigan pocket, and patting it
very gently, "and
then she goes inside and takes them out and plays with them. They're sleepy,
but then they
warm up and frisk around, and when she gets tired of
playing with them she goes and tucks them into their dirt beds." The
children brayed
with delight at this last image and the kid with the question looked happy.
"Do bugs eat people?" was the next question. It came from a big kid who
knew better.
The old man's answer was pretty honest, although he made parasites sound like
pets.
A few more questions and then it was over. At forums like these I would
usually chat
with the speaker, get a feel for how adventurous and open-minded he was. Every
so often I'd
run into a rogue scientist this way, willing to entertain even the most absurd
of questions, and I'd
offer my lab assistance. I'd usually find out, through gradual prods and such,
that their open-
mindedness only extended so far -- so I couldn't trust them, ultimately. Not
with the questions I
had.
But this guy seemed small-fry. I had heard that he was involved with
some pretty
groundbreaking stuff concerning insect myths, and I knew I had heard his name
before, but it
looked like he was more into the children angle. Still, I didn't like to think
of this as a total waste
of time, so I scribbled up a note with my number on it. His fans, a tall girl
with a grave face and
the little boy with the glasses, had books for him to sign. I passed the note
to him over their
heads and left. I glanced back through the window and saw the little boy
making tiny adultlike
gestures with his hand as his mother beamed on with pride.