I Miss George W. Bush

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I think –in pursuit of shaking this slump- I need to listen to less news.

What happened to that doddering white guy in cowboy boots everybody hated tellin’ us how great everything was a few months ago? I slept better knowing he was out there pickin fights ‘an declaring victory on random stuff. But now every morning it’s a black guy goin’ ”Holy freakin crap people, we’re screwed!”

I think the white guy should maybe fill in on weekends and vacation days: Saturday mornings I could tune into CNN and be pleasantly surprised with an upbeat newscast like Middle East Makes Up, Orgy Ensues or Chili Con Carne Recipe Cures Cancer, Genital Warts.

Would that be so bad?

Seriously?

Funk

Predator Press

[LOBO]

A handful of psychotherapists have indicated some concern over my moodiness lately.

Indeed, I’ve been in an orbit around ‘ah screw it’ for maybe three weeks now.

“Try to do something charitable,” says one. “There’s nothing more satisfying than being in service to others.”

So’s my mom has got a doctor appointment today, right? I figure here’s my chance: taking the old bat to her appointment might be a big step in breaking the sulk, and thusly keep my psychotherapists too busy to dawdle on dumb ideas.

But as this morning rolled around it dawned on me I didn’t know what kind of appointment it was. Hey if it’s an eye doctor or something, fine. But what if it’s, like, a –ahem- feminine doctor? That would be a waiting room experience even the Creepy Meter couldn’t quantify.

”Oh relax,” she laughs over my cellphone speaker. ”It’s just my in-network orthopedic surgeon.”

Calling her on my way to pick her up is dumb on a lot of levels. First of all, I’m committed at this point. There’s no “oops I overslept” option anymore: you’re stuck with faking an aneurysm or swerving into the other lane of traffic.

But second is my admitted inability to drive and talk on the cell in the first place. The driving side is fine, but the conversation suffers: you’re almost more apt to get a tuna casserole recipe out of me than anything useful.

I glance balefully at the phone, which is wedged cleverly in my emergency brake handle.

“Your in-network or torpedic surgeon?” I repeat. “What the hell is a ‘torpedic surgeon’?”

“It’s a bone doctor,” she explains.

“Once you get down to bones, isn’t it a little late?”

”Oh no. They have wonderful new technologies.”

“Sure,” I says. “They can scan you in a second and suck out what’s wrong with a glowing crazy straw made of lasers. But I’ll bet you a dollar nobody has figured out how to keep us out of the waiting room for anything less than an hour.”

“Doctor Quan has a very interesting collection of ceremonial masks on display.”

Ceremonial masks?

“Mom, what kind of doctor is this again?”

“In network.”

“Don’t we have American doctors anymore?” I complain. “You remember. An American doctor stumbles in off of the golf course drinking a glass of bourbon, puts his cigarette out on the floor, and punches you in the stomach. If you get up, you’re fine.” I grab my coffee out of the caddy. “You mean to say there wasn’t a single ‘Doctor Cooter’ in the whole damn phone book?”

”That would be a funny name for a gynecologist,” she points out.

-I blacked out actually hearing my mother utter the ‘G’ word by swinging into my exit lane. I’m pretty adept with my ‘mom’ filters: I don’t think I’ve heard a full sentence she’s said since I was six years old. “Doctor Cooter could do it all,” I says. “The receptionist says ‘next,’ and one by one the patients go in -never to be seen again.

”That sounds kinda creepy.”

“No. Because he cures them. Doctor Cooter doesn’t make you drive thirty miles to a specialist for X-rays before you see him next month. Doctor Cooter doesn’t need lousy X-rays. Doctor Cooter has instinct.”

”And an aptitude for body blows,” she adds.

“Exactly. And it’s not just one hour in the waiting room for Doctor Cooter. No. He calls everyone in at eight o’clock sharp so we could all watch each other slowly thin out. Six minutes later the lights are dimming in synch with an oscillating sound that suspiciously resembles a chainsaw. ReaaaahhhngggingingingAWWWW!”

”That’s awful.”

“-and glowing blue sparks shoot out from the crack under the door!” I kill the car engine in her driveway. “Hey I’m here.”

”I don’t think I want to go anymore,” says mom. ”Can I just tell them you overslept?”

“By all means.”

Eve

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I’ve been following Adam Carolla since the Doctor Drew Pinsky Loveline days.

Indeed, as a former truck driver I used to schedule loads around catching the show: midnights in 2003 had me picking up loads from angry sleeping chicken farms and so forth. Today I own an unlicensed archive of thousands of hours of the audio.

The fact that his new show –one that six years later I could listen to live locally every weekday- was cancelled as of Friday was frankly heartbreaking.

But there were some cool and redeeming facets to the event.

Firstly, the show wasn’t cancelled due to lack of ratings or the management and wage disputes that are common in the talk radio spectrum. The home station simply caved into the bad economy and went to a fully automated top 40 format. It was a matter of numbers. And Adam could have –as is also common in the talk radio format- spent his last two days on air bashing his soon-to-be-former employer.

He didn’t. He spent the last two shows taking calls from fans, saying goodbye, and trying to get his newly-unemployed crew jobs. He let them read their resumés on air.

But -maybe more importantly- he went on to announce a desire to begin pioneering a uniquely internet-based presence.

This hit me in a weirdly patriotic kind of way. I don’t think we need to go to video stores anymore. Paper is dead. Telephones are obsolete, and above all corporations, special interest groups and marketing executives do not control anything anymore: these economies are entirely self-perpetuating monarchies choking on their own dwindling DNA fumes, and the failure to recognize this is half the reason America is caught in it’s own fiscal quagmire.

Since the advent of the internet, we have no business –literally- in these entities anymore.

Already a fan, I’m once again impressed by Adam’s unique insight: I think he represents the finest of the modern day “American Spirit.”

-And I’ll be watching AdamCarolla.com with keen interest.

A Family Antimatter

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“And then Chip heard what Brad said,” emphasizes my teenage daughter, eh, Complainy.

I blink.

“Dad, now Cole won’t talk to Brad at all.”

“Are you just going to keep whipping names popular on Lifetime fifteen years ago at me?”

Complainy is visibly exhausted. “They’re fighting.”

“So three guys fighting over you right now,” I summarize.

“Yes,” she sighs woundedly.

“And you couldn’t get one of them to bring you your sweater?”

”What?”

“You made me drive you a sweater into school this morning,” I remind gently. “None of these three manly suitors could stop beating on each other long enough to come and get your sweater?”

“I couldn’t-“

“It seems to me the one that volunteered to go fetch the sweater woulda been the smart one,” I conclude. “The other two guys would’ve beaten each other to a pulp by then. He could’ve delivered the garment, and just put his foot on their chests while you held his arm up.”

“Or maybe he isn’t the smart one,” she says, clearly pissed.

“You raise an interesting point too," I observe. "Who the heck needs a sweater in California?"

“None of you care.”

“Sure we do,” I protest. “Just mostly about other stuff.”

“You’re not up for ’Father of the Year,’ are you?”

“We never liked you if you must know,” I confess. "And Terri will be the first to point out the fact that you started it."

"How?"

"That whole puking on her when we took you home from the hospital for one. It was a clear act of aggression and duly noted," I point out. “I’ve been keeping a close eye on you ever since.” I flip out a tattered notebook. “Not two hours later you took up screaming and other more passive-aggressive activities such as frequent drooling.”

“I was one day old!”

"Fine," I says flipping through some pages. “Then what's your excuse for that whole 'Chicken Pox' debacle?”

Internet Swag

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Snuff Films and Meth

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“Well,” says the guy. “I certainly don’t see those listed as hobbies very often.”

“Yeah well I wanted my application to stand out.” I reply. “My pornographic Skittle mosaics never seem to get much traction.”

He scans the forms thoroughly. “And your command of profanity is very impressive,” he observes.

“Thank you.”

He sets the documents down. “This was certainly an interesting read.”

“Yeah well I’ve done about 500 of those things so far. The way I see it, at this phase of the interviewing process the only thing you should be worried about is whether or not I’ll fling poo at your clients.”

“Um, there’s no smoking in here.”

I put the cigarette out in his coffee.

“Sorry.”

He drums his fingers on the desk thoughtfully. “How exactly did you hear of this position with Planned Parenthood?”

“I’ve got my sources,” I says evasively. I glance around to make sure we’re alone, and lean forward a little. “Hail Satan,” I whisper discretely.

“When can you start?”

“How soon can you stop asking me dumb questions and cut me a check? I could start setting those little sluts straight right away.”

“You have to fill out a W-2.”

“More paperwork?” Exasperated I shake my head. “You know what? I don’t think I want to work here anymore.” I flip my briefcase closed. “Can I just go back to sleep in your lobby?”

Tin Man

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I’m just going to say it outright: I’ve got writer’s block.

I’m not sweating it. It has happened before. I just need to “get typing.”

This post isn’t particularly funny … it’s just the first thing I’ve felt vaguely impelled to write.

A few years ago I was on a team of guys competing in a demolition derby.

-I don’t blame you for the yeah right: I’ll be the first to tell you I’m a tech guy and not a “mech” guy. I can’t change the oil on my car because I think $25 is worth the hassle. And carpentry? Oh holy shit I would sooner burn the place down and collect the insurance.

-But demolition derby was something I always wanted to do I guess. And I want to drive a DD car myself one day: this would be how you start, right? Besides, wouldn’t volunteering for a team provide some great writing fodder?

This "team" needed a volunteer because they had two drivers, and hence two cars. I’m sure you’ve seen stuff one television with guys in cargo shorts and flip flops designing stuff in AutoCAD, but this was an experienced bunch of rednecks with a well-tooled barn, someone on an Acetylene torch 24/7, a seemingly endless supply of rich racist euphamisms, oil-saturated skin and a very specific agenda:

The Derby.

So before I run the risk of making this story more about other people than myself, I’ll regale you with tales of how I hadda get every sliver of windshield glass out of the interior and stuff.

Still, I should back up for a second and explain some things.

You had to, in the regulations of this particular race, “gut” a car and strip it to sheer functional essentials: the gas tank had to be 5 gallons or less. A “protection cage” required installation in each car.

-But there is specific emphasis on glass. Glass must be completely removed and replaced by a ‘tic-tac-toe’ pattern of chains welded to various body components. For lack of better technology, this requires shattering all windows inwardly, and scooping, sweeping, DustBustering –whatever it takes.

Because of this, I was present then the vehicle hoods got “trimmed.” At this phase, they cut holes in the hoods and trunks and doors to chain them closed as per the afore mentioned regulations.

-I got a little oval of steel from both cars, and they sit on my desk -slightly two o’clock fro my line of vision as I write this. I consider them weird luck.

So anyway, I got photographs of the various processes and some great shots of the “crew.” I had notes and details. I had a pretty decent writing project going. And when the deadline for the cars to be inspected for the race loomed, we all –some six vehicles including the truck our two cars were on- simultaneously tore off from the remote farm in a swirling cyclone of flying dust and highly-charged howled obscenities.

-My car, however, the infamous Chick Magnet, broke down at the farm's mailbox and I was stranded for the next 13 hours. The cellphone containing all the precious teambuilding photography was hurled in frustration due to no signal at the fender of the Chick Magnet by a man -who will not be named- in that desolate 20-X-20 mile radius containing only myself.

And those demolition derby pricks won.

Presurrection

Predator Press

[LOBO]

I couldn't pinpoint when it happened, but let's just say the word “retard” has all but vanished from my vocabulary in a decade or so of political correctness.

But every teenager I’ve talked to in the last few months uses the abbreviation ”tard” instead.

Example: ”Dude, that guy is such a 'tard!"

I should be more impressed with their commanding economy over prefixes such as “re”: this subtle modification has masterfully reintroduced the sorely-missed word to our lexicon almost without prejudice.

-But they cancel it out almost entirely with that stubborn habit of adding the suffix “palooza” to everything.

Dear Kellogg’s

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Okay, I’ve had it.

I’ve heard enough Michael Phelps crap.

-The only reason I haven’t weighed in sooner is because I haven’t heard an argument better than "WTF!?!"

Doesn’t Kellogg’s shove a pricey gulletfull of sugar down every single last child in this nation every day? And besides the kids ‘an the “stoners,” who is dumb enough to be eating that diabetic seizure-inducing sugar-coated packing foam in the first place?

A winning Olympic athlete did?

Really?

GET OVER IT

Somnium

Predator Press

[LOBO]

One day –for whatever reason- the last letter of this blog will be typed.

Over time, many of the numerous blogs that it links to will fail as well. And here -unmonitored- those fossilized links will inevitably break one by one.

And having ground to a standstill, required upgrades will be missed and new guidelines will be unheeded: long forgotten bills and subscriptions will go unpaid, and ultimately Predator Press will stutter on in a distorted and sleepily hobbled feed, winding out tiredly into an uncaring oblivion.

-Perhaps before then, one of the following people (who all have something in common) will “google” themselves and realize that I have missed them terribly:


Troi Orias
Grant Uyeshiro
Aaron Leong
Kimo Albarado
Kevin and Lynnette Almeida
Ken Scroggins
Nelson Aoyama


carpenoctum-at-hotmail.com

The Return of the Fellowship of the Ring-Wearing Lord of the Two Towers' King

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The taxi driver -clearly a Visigoth of the proud Tervingi division- smiled widely into the rearview mirror.

“Buenos dias!” he says enthusiastically.

“Look buddy,” I says watching behind to see if anyone is following us. “I don’t speak Visigoth. And this is Los Angeles dammit. If you’re going to do business here, you’re gonna have to pick up the local language pronto.”

“English,” he says. “I know some. Where you need to go?”

“Into history, my friend. I want you to take me to see The Gooch.”

He screeches to such an abrupt halt, my face smashes into the front seat cushion.

“Jesus Christ!” I complain.

“Get out!” he demands. “I will not take another man to that evil place.”

I’m getting tired of repeating myself. “Look. I need to slay The Gooch so I can get a book deal.”

“Well I have a book deal,” the driver points out.

“You do not,” I reply furiously.

“I do so,” he says, showing me the cover of a paperback on his dashboard.

His picture is on it.

“Romantic comedy,” he explains. “It was on the bestseller list for thirteen weeks.”

“Bragger.”

“But I will not take you to The Gooch.” He turns around to face me, throwing his elbow behind his seat. “Many have gone, and few return. And the few that do return only tear out their own eyes screaming in the deepest sanitariums on Earth. Besides it’s right there.”

He points to a dark castle enshrouded in fierce clouds at the top of a jagged mountain at the end of the block.

I whistle.

“That’ll be twelve dollars,” he says.

“You only took me eight feet!”