So maybe sometimes I am briefly-- briefly-- under the impression that my mind is leading the physical world in a short-- short!-- game of Simon Says (just this past Sunday at the gym I was staring intently at a guy's knee brace until I caused it to fall down to his ankle), but when you are sitting in the doctor's office, flipping through a magazine, and you come to an ad which formerly contained diction you took gentle issue with, and the ad has since (in a very short period of time) switched out that diction, you might almost feel as if the physical world is encouraging these types of impressions. And then you've really come full magical-thinking circle.
Now let's see if my brain can do it again with this ad that is so, so close to perfection (who wouldn't want in her armpit the cool, drying sensation of a refurbished chateau, a joust-ready king on a horse, Lance Armstrong's French nemesis, bakers hurriedly pedaling over fresh baguettes, a personal portraitist in a beret, a mime!, and two well-oiled fireman from the fourth and seventh arrondissements who literally blow liquid love from their hose?) with the exception of the Dalmatian in the red bandanna that's pawing at the deodorant. The dog strikes me as too American. I'd like to see a French Bulldog in a scarf.
At the very least, a Papillon in a striped shirt.
Oops, and where's Jerry Lewis?