I would like to meet, for dinner, at the most opulent, Bunuellian feast, held under water in some dark Scottish loch, Brian Lynch. We would be surrounded by the souls of needlessly slaughtered dolphins; those quiet, gentle Earth-Lords, oozing with their ancient knowledge of long lost shapes and languages, braying for us, or Brian, to hear their poetry which bespeaks of the ancient folly of Man; and many retarded people. We would move through the appetizer course without incident; the dolphins shlupping canned herring with innate ease, the retarded people digging deep to conquer the complexities of the fondue station, while Brian, in his chosen corner, pensively licks Grandma's old mayonaisse jar. As the evening progresses, and the warm light of the sun begins to make love to the cold shadows that populate the horizon, the salad course emerges from once where dolphin, retard, and Brian thought only finger paints remained for succor.