It had no arms or legs to speak of;
no fleshy, meaty exterior or squishy
insides; no heart, no brain, no soul. It was just a protracted steel body, long and spindly, a rectangular “head” at the end, and one glowing sensor. It
wasn’t alive. It wasn’t sentient. It was a robot.
Bill Walton – a 7 foot tall anomaly
from the annals of basketball history
who wears tie-dye shirts, listens to the
Grateful Dead and, according to his
own outlandish proclamations, hasn’t
taken an indoor shower in 35 years – is
well-known for looking at average accomplishmentsand being overcome
with extreme fits of emotion.