Draw the Line

-The Six Dollar Man

Predator Press

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Watching TV Land from this bear trap has gone on long enough.

-Time to escape by chewing my own paw off.

(Unless they rerun Dallas.)

Raving Private Ryan

Predator Press

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With recent back surgery, a broken ankle, a broken foot and a broken wrist, an act like bathing can become deceptively complex -sometimes leaving me in various states of undress for up to an hour. And our bedroom -the 'Master'- is in the deepest recesses of the house, with little likelihood for random crazy crap to somehow waft up.

So what is it with Californians and busting open closed doors? At any hour of the day, I shut the door and the goddamn thing bursts open -without a knock or warning- within minutes. I’ve bitched and moaned about this for years already, but I am so frustrated at this point: is Richard Dawson hiding out somewhere downstairs making these people think it’s an episode of The Price is Right?   Please take your lovely array of kitchen appliances and Rice-a-Roni parting gifts, and leave Door Number One alone.  I’ll bet if I floated a closed horizontal door and frame in the middle of some uncharted frozen sea, hundreds of Californians would somehow drown. [Believe it or not, my stepdaughter did it as I was drafting this.]

Is a courtesy knock really too much to ask anyone? Or after all these years of complaining, wouldn’t one consider doing an act so simple -rational or not- just to avoid the inevitable subsequent spectacle? At this point, I’m starting to feel I’m just being needlessly provoked.

Do any of you adult couples -parents, specifically- have this kind of liberal “open door” policy in your homes? My [step] kids' ages range from 8, 17, and 21, and all have friends and guests that have similar mileage. Terri’s case is “I’ve never had closed doors in my family.”   Well that's nice and quaint and all, but let's be realistic Laura Ingalls: these are mostly young adults that I’ve only known for a few years.

-Wouldn’t it be creepy if I wasn't concerned about this?

How The West Was Spared

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Heroes Come In All Shapes And IQs

Predator Press

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Is there anything worse than a bored cop?

Seriously?

Wait.

-I should back up a little.

Terri and I got here in California a year ago, and just today got our drivers licenses straightened out. Long story short, we would go to the DMV and they would tell us we needed “X” document. So we would mail for “X” document, receive it weeks or months later, and return to the DMV only to find out we needed “Y” document too.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Anywho, Terri picked up a ticket a few months ago because the address on her license wasn’t current. Haha. Ain’t that a kick in the pants? So immediately from the DMV we go to the police station to get the ticket signed. From there, we head for the courthouse to pay the fine.

Now I’ve never been to this courthouse before, and it doesn’t cross my mind we have to go through a metal detector until we’re standing in front of it. Belt, keys, wallet, watch and cellphone are dropped into a little plastic tray, and I proceed to the far end of the X-Ray machine.

“Can I see your cellphone again please?” says the security woman. Talking to Terri and trying to get my belt back on, I hand it to her more on autopilot than anything.

But after a few moments, it appears something is amiss. She’s got my phone out of it’s holster, and staring. Then she looks at the X-Ray screen. Then back at the phone. She calls a nearby police officer over.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

“Well, I can’t figure this out,” she says. Pointing at the screen with her pen, she draws a circle around a globular shape. “What’s that?”

I recognize it. Shit. “That’s not my phone,” I reply reaching for my wallet. “It’s this Tool Logic doohickey.”

"Tool Logic doohickey" is a technical term for a credit card-like set of miniature tools Ethan got for me a few years ago; I slipped it into my wallet, and haven’t thought of it since. It’s got a little set of tweezers, a can opener, and –unfortunately for me- a small blade.

Now enter bored cop.

-Bored cop that now has his hand on his firearm.

“Didn’t you see the red signs everywhere?”

Terri and I look around.

None.

“What red signs?”

“The signs outside that say no weapons in the courthouse.”

I’m perplexed. “Weapon? That’s a tool. It says so right on the side in big bold letters.” I point at the prominent TOOLLOGIC logo. “See? T-O-O-L. And seriously. Who am I going to kill with that? You guys got some kind of rabbit infestation or something? My belt is actually deadlier if you think about it ...”

I suddenly realize the tension of the situation is rapidly escalating. Everyone in the large foyer has grown ominously silent, and all eyes are on us.

-This guy is serious.

Curses! My diabolical plan to commandeer this podunk courthouse and fly it into the World Trade Center has been foiled.

“I could take you to jail for trying to smuggle this in here,” he says. He’s a smaller guy than I am, but he’s doing that well-practiced cop body language thing, half-designed to corral me to the side, and half to intimidate.

But I ain’t some spray-on tan local red-eyed fruitflake: I’m from Chicago, fuckwad.

-You start the music, you get the dance.

“Stand back everyone!” I demand a loudly. “Or I'll open every goddamned envelope in this place!”

Revolting

Predator Press

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In May of 2007, Paris Hilton was sentenced to 45 days in jail only to be released after serving 50 hours. After much public outcry and drama, she was returned –ultimately serving a total of 23 days.

And admittedly I’d already been a Paris hater for years. It started with “The Simple Life” -a FOX Network reality show starring her and some other similarly vapid frosted flake I can’t remember, explicitly engineered to ridicule and humiliate the American working class.

That said, let’s skip ahead to a week ago. I had to renew my expiring driver’s license –including a CDL which cost me a month of intensive training and roughly $4,500.

While relieved it wasn’t the four hour ordeal I’ve grown to expect from the DMV it was all for nothing anyway: despite having no criminal record at all, my still-valid license, birth certificate copy, SS card, apartment lease, car title, marriage license -and my legally-verifyable wife Terri standing right beside me- the California DMV "could not help."

-My Birth Certificate wasn’t certified. Born in Chicago, my certified Birth Certificate would have to be attained via Illinois ... Even if I spent a fortune it would take a week.

I was told “tough luck,” and subsequently have no legal identification or driver's license –and that $4,500 CDL potential source of income? Bye-bye. I have to take written tests, driving tests -everything all over again.

Well I apparently went to the wrong DMV altogether: according to TMV [story linked here], in Santa Monica it was prearranged for Paris Hilton -criminal record and Probation in tow- not to wait in any lines at all, take five photos, and all employees were ordered to turn their cellphones off so no other photos got leaked. All this was done during regular business hours, and right in front of clearly less-important people such as ourselves.

As far as DMVs go, Santa Monica appears so uncharacteristically accommodating I think maybe I’ll provide a few links to the relevant agencies. What a fine example! They should be contacted so their unique Customer Service insights be shared, and we can enjoy the same treatment at all DMVs across this Great Nation:



The Santa Monica Department of Motor Vehicles
2235 Colorado Avenue
Santa Monica, 90404
(800)777-0133


Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger
California State Capitol Building
Sacramento, CA 95814
Phone: 916-445-2841
Fax: 916-445-4633
email

Californicalizationism

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I’ve got it. Damnit I’ve got it!

Ah crap.

-I lost it again.

California

Predator Press

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As action movie star Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger opens a dialogue regarding the legalization of marijuana, Federal Emergency-level wildfires rage out of control and a teenage beauty queen simultaneously lectures the rest of the Nation on morality.

I dunno.

-Some pot sounds like a good idea actually.

The Eagle is Stranded

Predator Press

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Well, sixty days in and we finally got a place: Terri and I exchange what little cash we have left with our new landlord tomorrow morning. And maybe -as the place isn‘t occupied- he‘ll [*hope-hope*] let us move in early.

The weird thing is this is one of the few places Terri and I both liked -I’ve liked everything since our Californian, eh, 'occupation,' but Terri wants, like, plumbing 'an stuff.

“How ’bout this one?” I would ask her.

“It’s a second floor,” she would scowl. “Screechy might fall down the stairs.”

“Kids can be remarkably resilient,” I point out.

"Can you?"

“Okay fine," I concede. "This one seems nice.”

“No,” she would sigh. “It’s in a bad neighborhood.”

“But we would be great Crips," I insist.

Terri scowls.

"Okay forget it," I says. "How about this one?”

“That’s a box of Rice-A-Roni with an old sock in it.”

“I like it’s portability frankly," I says. "We could totally drag it into an upscale school district. And once we're 'settled in' I can add on a tomato soup can for when people come visit."

Bonfire of the Manatees

Predator Press

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California -still stubbornly trying to kill us- finds us hopping from motel to motel in a relentless search of our own little space to throw elbows from. It's like getting strangled slowly and softly by deeply-tanned, diet pill-popping pastel tourniquets.

I’ve done this “urban survivalist” thing before, but I’ve never been so bold as to do it with a family in tow. As one person, you kind of have a “fix“ on things; with multiple people (and a cat) you get blindsided by curve balls like running out of toilet paper at 3am -and not having anyplace to get any.

Suffice to say once graced with more time and stability I’ll write in greater detail about these adventures.

But for now just take my word for it: never ever ever use the washcloths at a motel.

Getting "Discovered" is Tougher than I Thought

Predator Press

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Well, today marks one whole week since we’ve arrived in California and I have yet to appear in a single movie.

Oh sure … I’ve had offers. But at the moment I need to focus on my political career.

-And Civilization IV.

Still, a job might help. It’s pretty tense right now: I’m essentially about one Google search from Terri finding out there’s actually no such thing as Arecacephobia -the morbid fear of palm trees- and without health insurance, the stitches from a blow from a frying pan could totally ruin us.

I need to think of something quick.

Today, taking a page out of Lana Turner’s playbook, I hung out at the drug store all damn day.

“Hey,” says the soda jerk, “Aren’t you-?”

Ah thank god. A Predator Press fan.

“-going to order something?” he continues. “You can’t sit there unless you order something.”

"You're not fooling anybody, damonkappas!" I says. "I'm on to you!"


***

So 6 32-ounce Mountain Dews later, still no employment.

Now I have to pee like a Russian racehorse, and my laptop battery is nearly dead because I’ve written six Broadway musicals and a rather lengthy sequel to Les Misérables.

I was just wrapping up the part where Cosette finds out Marius Pontmercy is actually a zombie space alien and crushes him against his own flying saucer in her Escalade when the drug store closed and I got kicked out.

Honestly with a work ethic like that, I don’t know how anything gets done out here at all.

Hey This Shinola Smells Like Crap

Predator Press

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I don't know what I'm more excited about -the move to California or the nod as John Nobody's Vice Presidential running mate.

At first I figured I should prioritize the up-and-coming election. You know, start making up the policies and so forth I would be pretending to stick to?

But then I found out Don Lewis went to Oregon.

On purpose.

-Man, this election is going to be a piece of cake.


***

So about the trip. This post -like the last one- is kinda hastily slapped together. Before we left, Comcast was kind enough to turn our services off a day early. Rendered wholly unable to use the phone and pay off the bill with my VISA due to this, I considered the remaining balance as a 'going away present' and spent the entire $200 frivolously on postcards and snowglobes from obscure locations across continental LOBOnia.

Thanks Comcast! I would send you this snowglobe of Twentynine Palms, but you would probably break that too.

Now safely on the "other side," we find ourselves hanging by a tenuous fingernail with internet connectivity once again. We are staying with Terri's relatives, and Terri's relatives are Mac users.

But do not judge Terri's woefully uniformed Mac-using relatives too harshly! Remember we are mooching heavily from these people; this is no time to point out their laughable choice of a clearly inferior so-called "operating" system.

Nay, this is a time where patient understanding and tolerance of their quaint eccentricities and dumb misguided boobery must be respected and embraced as our own.

For today, Terri and I shall be respectful of this pagan foolishness. But once we figure out these weird and counter-intuitive Mac network configurations, we will surely inform them of their colossal technological blunders and mournful misgivings: !!!Whammo!!! -The mighty oak tree of TRUTH will come a-callin', right upside the head.


***

As far as the contiguous parts of our great nation of LOBOnia, let me first point out I had no idea how big it is. It's too big. I mean it took like fifty gallons of gas to get accross it!

I'm going to level with you: I don't need this much space.

Plus I need some quick cash.

Does anyone know if any countries might be interested in shelling out a few hundred bucks for the east side of it? I'm not there anymore, and therefore there can't be a while lot going on. It does hold some sentimental value, but still I seriously doubt it would be missed.

The best current offer is from a fun-loving scrubby-looking group of guys called "The Taliban": on the table is four cows, six virgins and 500 free hours on AOL.

While this appeared to be a tempting offer at first, it turns out that four of the six virgins were actually the cows anyway, and the remaining two virgins were hippopotamus women with unkempt toenails that extended waaay beyond their sandals.

All damn day I heard nothing but clackitty-clicketty-clack against the linoleum, and the occasional mournful wail when one periodically snagged in the shag carpet.

Ultimately I'll probably turn "The Taliban" down.

How could I possibly allow beloved Pianosa I's shag carpet be reduced to bloodied tufts as such?

Besides, their music sucks.


***

Anyways, I do miss Pianosa I. The full weight of emotions didn't fully hit until the morning we arrived here at Pianos II -my tiny black heart collapsed into a singularity and exploded.

-Well, it kinda coughed for a second. If you look closely, there's a stress fracture in the left ventricle. I'm almost sure it's permanent too.

But Terri did this for me a year and a half ago. She sold and gave away everything, told her family goodbye, and "followed her heart" with only me to rely on.

Would you cross a woman that crazy?

The Westward Ho Bag

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Yes, it is true that Terri and I are indeed are headed to California.

I mentioned it before on this blog.

But I have also mentioned conspiring with space aliens for the overthrow of Humankind, indestructible fusion-powered robotic ex-girlfriends, and a dragon that plays spectacular Scrabble.

-If you weren’t taking me seriously then, I don’t think you people will take anything seriously.

I must say a tearful goodbye to my beloved Pianosa.

I will miss this place.

My initial reaction was what some people might call a bit selfish: If I can’t continue to enjoy Pianosa, why should anyone else?

I figured by nuking Pianosa to smithereens and starting Pianosa II in California, I would be doing everyone a favor.

-It is, after all, the most practical course of action. Instead of moving, I could just collect the insurance money and start all over with brand new stuff!

Unfortunately, some of my favorite people live in Pianosa I.

Bastards.

I would like to assure the following “former Pianosians” that they will not be burned to cinders:

1) Dantheinventoryman: Oh man, if anyone deserves to be burned to cinders, it’s you.

But I also intuitively know you would somehow survive the radioactive fallout and find us.

You are a map slut, and billions and billions of phone books would have to be recalled and reprinted to correct your reckless and wanton geographical infidelity.

Well I like trees, and I will have no part of this.

2) HST: I’ve been a member of the band Hot Sauce Tamales for over two years now. We do Red Hot Chili Peppers cover tunes backwards-masked with Satanic messages on six rubber bands stretched to varying lengths, an oscillating weed-whacker and a slide whistle.

Way ahead of our time.

We were far and away the most innovative music space-age polymers, a two-stroke engine, latex and Spandex could possibly provide.

The people just weren’t ready for us yet.

3) Ethan: Far and away the person I’ve least fantasized about killing with an ice pick. What am I going to do without my oldest, dearest friend and mentor?

[*sniff*] And what will I do with this ice pick?

Anywho, soon I’ll be engaged simultaneously in the three most hideous and horrible experiences ever known: moving, applying for jobs, and taking acting classes.

I'm taking acting classes are just in case I can't get any other type of work.

-But I sure hope Pianosa II has a Space Program.

Dynasty

Predator Press

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Having caved to the pressure to move west, Terri and I took the kids to O’Hare yesterday so’s they could stay with relatives while we put our affairs in order.

The house is quiet without Screechy pointlessly runnin back and forth bangin’ and breakin stuff. And now instead of uselessly arguing for weeks with Shiftless, the lawn is getting mowed promptly. The phone is quiet and fully-charged in it’s cradle, cold to the touch in the absence of the medium-sized one one -eh, Complainy.

[*sigh*]

Who would’ve thought I would miss them?

I don’t have anyone to blame stuff on anymore!

[*sniff*]

Movers to Shakers

Predator Press

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Ugh.

I’m burned out on the “Midwest”.

Seriously.

One has only to Google “Midwest” to realize nobody knows where this place really even is. Middle of what? West of what?

-Imagine my chagrin to discover that in my adulthood I would grow to agree with the gnarly-toed hippopotamus woman that taught Geography in elementary school, and demand a little more commitment and resolution when it comes to my national regions!

California -where my lovely wife is from- continues to seize upon my imagination. I mean why should I deny myself the incalculable wealth and fame of such glamorous celebrities as Leonardo DiCaprio, Paris Hilton and Diesel?

And as the first blogger to have debunked tornados, why not continue on to debunk earthquakes as well?

… The scientific import alone warrants this debate.

Real Estate

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Apartment hunting can be one long series of let-downs after another.

But as the guy that fills in when the Predator Press Copy Editor is sick, I figure I gotta think ferocious and big.

We have an image to keep up after all.

I rather liked this one. Despite the dust and the skeletons, I thought it would make a nice 'fixer-upper'. I'll bet if I went to the store and bought some flathead screwdrivers and then hired some people who knew how to use them, this place would have been top notch in no time.

If it wasn't for the commute, I might have gone for it.

Still, there are other pyramids.

This stately model was really attractive. I mean it's like Aztec or something. What better place to raise your kids, knowing full well that one day they must slay you that they may finally worship themselves instead?

I finally concluded that I didn't want to deal with all that lawn care and landscaping.

I finally settled on this place. I mean sure it's too small and the bathrooms smell funny: in real estate terms, that means "cozy" and "odorific".

Just look at all those kickass videogames.

And hello? A mechanical bull? I've always wanted a mechanical bull!

I can just imagine the tears of joy when LadyTerri finds out I got this cool place with a mechanical bull by merely cashing in our 401k.

She might even make pork chops.

You've Got Mail

Predator Press

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You readers know I love you, right?

I would do anything, anyplace, anytime for either one of you. I would even dredge Lake Michigan eventually!

... But I absolutely live for Saturday mornings.

There's nothing like padding around in your footie pajamas and watching cartoons until noon.

On Saturdays, no one gets mad at me for it; but when I do it on Tuesday, oh holy crap it's all 'bitch, bitch, bitch'.

On Saturday mornings, I don't always answer the phone either.

Ironic, isn't it? That I will spend a fortune on a security system with thermal detectors, a moat filled with starving alligators swimming in napalm and a perimeter surrounded by high-powered motion-detecting laserbeams? Nothing can pierce the heart of this tranquil womb of solitude.

Except the telephone.

As Ethan is calling, I'm sipping a latte and fiddling with the security cameras, zooming in and out of what has become a bizarre and intriguing discovery.

My front yard has fallen victim of some kind of crazy litterbug.

I pick up the phone absently.

"Yeah?" I says.

It's Ethan.

"Are you watching the news?" he asks.

"No," I says distantly, zooming the camera onto a small pile of smoldering rubbish on the sidewalk. It looks like a bag.

"Bob Guccione Jr just got arrested for starting all those California wildfires."

"No shit?" I says, zooming in on a second pile over on the walkway. It's another scorched sack of some kind.

This one appears to be labeled 'US Mail'.

"Yeah," Ethan continues. "They caught him red-handed burning a script someone mailed him."

Panning out with the camera, I see three of those little mail trucks, all oddly peppered and scarred with what appear to be burns from high-powered motion-detecting laserbeams.

An ashen dust-devil whips through a charred and blackend skeleton, hanging listlessly from the seatbelt.

Well, it appears my Saturday is completely fucked already.

Synchronicity

Predator Press

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"So you got kicked out of California too?" says Ethan.

"Well, if you call being handcuffed into the luggage compartment of a Greyhound bus at gunpoint 'kicked out'." I says. "I considered it more being escorted. Besides, it was a mutual decision. I'm just too edgy for conservative prudes like that."

"You don't have many states left."

"I know," I says, setting my watch back to central time. "This whole country is going to crap."

"That clock is a few minutes fast," Ethan points out.

"Why is it," I complain, "that every clock in this building says something different?"

"Hey, feel free to fix them yourself," says Ethan dismissing me with a hand gesture absently. "You can't really travel much anymore. Might as well make yourself useful."


***

The reason Ethan gives me these technical jobs is because of they are often fraught with hidden complexities.

For instance, I would set the clocks at 2:35, but the Predator Press warehouse is massive; by the time I got done, the first one would be several minutes off.

In an effort to synchronize them perfectly, I tried running, but the Safety jerks yelled at me out of fear I would get hit by the swarms of well-orchestrated forklifts and equipment.

I got 16 people -one for each clock-who were all supposed to simultaneously set their respective clock when I stated the time over their radios. But when you hand 16 industrial guys radios, suddenly they think it's Karaoke night; I couldn't get a word in edgewise between the howling, tone-deaf tinny choruses of "I Got Friends in Low Places" and "Take this Job and Shove it".

The only way I'm going to be able to do this effectively is going to be by setting the clocks, and then turning them all on at the same time. And the only way to do that it appears, will be by pulling this 'Main Power' swi

Livin Large

Predator Press

[LOBO]

So here I am at Qualcomm Stadium with the rest of the Californian evacuees, getting a massage and blogging after my yoga lessons.

Honestly, I don't know what those Katrina people were complaining about; this is the best vacation I've ever had.

For dinner, I had a 24oz brick of "Evacuee Cheese", and it was splendid.

The tan woman distributing the rescue food was obviously distressed.

"Wouldn't you like some lobster tail?" she asks, concerned. "Or some baked Alaska?"

"No thanks," I says, grabbing some eating utensils. "But I'll take a 2-liter bottle of Mountain Dew if you've got one."

"Aren't you worried about your cholesterol?" she persists.

"Why?" I says, looking around nervously at the crowded scene. "Are these infidels trying to steal it?"

"Infidels?" she asks, handing me a 2-liter bottle of Mountain Dew.

"Well, that's the only explanation isn't it? I mean God clearly hates you people." While taking a deep swig, I eye the inside of the cap. "Earthquakes, fire tornados, floods, tsunamis. Take the hint already, and stop hanging around here trying to steal cholesterol!"

"No," she clarifies, smiling politely. "I mean high cholesterol can lead to heart attacks."

"My heart is completely incapable of any attack whatsoever," I assure her. "I doubt it could even successfully lobby for trade tariffs. Now this here cap says I won a 'free 2-liter Mountian Dew'. Will you honor it?"

She nods. "But you should get some exercise and eat better."

"It gets cold out here at night. I kinda like that hot, burning sensation I get as the blood squirts though." A portable radio is blaring some fat sounds I like. "Who is that?"

"That's Given Up by Linkin Park," she says, handing me another 2-liter bottle of Mountain Dew. "They've been one of the biggest bands in the United States for almost five years. You've never heard of them?"

"No," I says.

"Not very hip, are you?"

"Maybe I'm too hip to notice," I retort.

"Are you even a citizen?" she asks.

"What?"

"Hablo un poco español; ¿comprende usted?"

"How dare speak to me in 'Tongues', you common Babylonian whore?" I demand, making a Cross symbol with my plastic knife and spork.

"Security!" she cries. "Security!"

"So where's your fancy pagan 'français parlez' now?" I demand.

God, I don't understand why these things continue to happen to me ...

FEMA Isn't Racist, Just Lazy

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Ethan says, "Go cover the story in California."

I figure cool right? Nice mild weather, tanned chicks in bikinis, sushi, and being harangued by anti-smoking laws. Bob Gucionne Jr just gave me $50 of blow money minus the shipping costs too; I figure I'm going to go see my "Brokeback Mountain Troll" script being planned by Miramax in style.

Well, it turns out that California is on fire.

I can't believe the sheer irony of my huge story being ruined by California being on fire.

Where the fuck are all the firemen, you hippies!?