Mother Night
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Most afternoons are certainly dedicated to play once the work is done; mornings, conversely, are spent ramping up to be serious.
--for a few hours anyways.
At the prompt of the shrieking alarm clock, I flip on the news via the remote control while shuffling my way to the kitchen in my fuzzy-bunny slippers. Then I’ll spend about ten minutes with my coffee in the living room, blearily sorting out what you people have done while I was sleeping.
But today I woke a little late, and my beloved morning ritual was rudely disrupted; with no time for cozy commiseration, I could give the television but a momentary look as I headed for the shower.
In that single glance, I caught some familiar ticker tape phrases scrolling across the bottom of the screen; words like Slaughterhouse Five and Breakfast of Champions. And my first thought is that some school is trying to ban books again … or maybe some religious nut is cranking up the political atmosphere by cracking down on controversial writing.
Again.
Very boring.
Must shower.
Click
So it would be another full hour before I would learn that Kurt Vonnegut is dead.
As an amateur and pisspoor satirist, I’m not going to spend a whole lot of time trying to convince you that I’ve got feelings and that I’m actually feeling those feelings now; I wouldn’t insult your intelligence like that. But I will have said that I’ve been reading Kurt’s work –I can call him Kurt now ‘cuz he’s dead and can’t complain—since my early teens, and the dark and existential humor that authors like he and Joseph Heller gave us probably had more influence on me than even my own parents.
Through them I discovered “The Paperback”: tiny little innocuous-seeming rectangles that fit in your back pocket, sometimes cunningly containing wild and savage detonations of imagination, dripping with sharp wit, social commentary, and much-needed acerbic bite. So potent was their power, they could make you spontaneously laugh or cry unexpectedly, drawing awkward stares and looks.
The world of writing just got a lot lonelier somehow.
Thank you KV.
For everything.
[LOBO]
Most afternoons are certainly dedicated to play once the work is done; mornings, conversely, are spent ramping up to be serious.
--for a few hours anyways.
At the prompt of the shrieking alarm clock, I flip on the news via the remote control while shuffling my way to the kitchen in my fuzzy-bunny slippers. Then I’ll spend about ten minutes with my coffee in the living room, blearily sorting out what you people have done while I was sleeping.
But today I woke a little late, and my beloved morning ritual was rudely disrupted; with no time for cozy commiseration, I could give the television but a momentary look as I headed for the shower.
In that single glance, I caught some familiar ticker tape phrases scrolling across the bottom of the screen; words like Slaughterhouse Five and Breakfast of Champions. And my first thought is that some school is trying to ban books again … or maybe some religious nut is cranking up the political atmosphere by cracking down on controversial writing.
Again.
Very boring.
Must shower.
Click
So it would be another full hour before I would learn that Kurt Vonnegut is dead.
As an amateur and pisspoor satirist, I’m not going to spend a whole lot of time trying to convince you that I’ve got feelings and that I’m actually feeling those feelings now; I wouldn’t insult your intelligence like that. But I will have said that I’ve been reading Kurt’s work –I can call him Kurt now ‘cuz he’s dead and can’t complain—since my early teens, and the dark and existential humor that authors like he and Joseph Heller gave us probably had more influence on me than even my own parents.
Through them I discovered “The Paperback”: tiny little innocuous-seeming rectangles that fit in your back pocket, sometimes cunningly containing wild and savage detonations of imagination, dripping with sharp wit, social commentary, and much-needed acerbic bite. So potent was their power, they could make you spontaneously laugh or cry unexpectedly, drawing awkward stares and looks.
The world of writing just got a lot lonelier somehow.
Thank you KV.
For everything.
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