The strangest thing in my apartment, aside from an otherwordly fuzz growing near the bottom of the refrigerator, is the revival of one of the plants on the balcony.  It was dead, done, toast, history, finito--and yet, months later, raw green shoots are poking out of the soil and demanding to be watered.  Why the miraculous recovery?  My botanical touch is certainly deft.  I sing to my plants, alternating between arias from Carmen and selected Magnetic Fields tunes.

Regardless of the reason, it’s alive.  I am convinced that I am Lazarus, and I have the power to return things from the Dead.  I’m in the process of deciding whom to bring back first:

Jesus, Muhammad, and Buddha.  “Do you see what’s going on out there?  You can’t even tell me that this is what you people had in mind.  You’ve got to go out there and stop them before--BUDDHA!  Put the damn nachos down.”

Charles Dickens.  “My old English professor said that my interpretation of your work was bunk, so I want you to write her a handwritten letter and tell her off.  Just mention that your characters represent the complex relationship between gender and class in the late 19th century, and--hey, don’t give me that horrified look, Chuck.  I brought you back and I can take you out.”

River Phoenix.  “Seriously man--aren’t you ashamed of yourself?  You couldn’t hack it and meanwhile both Coreys are alive and making crappy direct-to-video movies.  Get your lazy, dead ass back to work.”

My pet snake Bart.  He died too soon.  You have a favorite pet from your childhood?  A fuzzy, cute animal that you remember fondly?  Whatever.  Bart could totally eat it.

I was also going to resurrect Katharine Hepburn, but can you believe that she’s still alive?