Thursday
Wednesday
Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I’m feeling a little over-saturated with Tiger Woods news.
But am I above capitalizing on this topic? Oh hell no. Like Michael Jackson’s death and Kanye West’s VMA debacle, I’m going to be right up here pontificating with the rest of the world. I mean c’mon ... where else but America would a guy get busted for adultery, and mistresses -in numbers likely to exceed the double-digits- come out of the woodwork acting sanctimonious?
Think about it: given the sheer number of Tiger's apparent, eh, “dalliances,” is it even remotely possible that not a single one of them knew that Tiger -one of the most highly-sought media figures in the past ten years- was married? None of their friends? Colleagues? Unwilling to openly solicit exclusive deals with the media yet, to a (wo)man they all look into the camera and say, “Why am I coming forward? I just wanted Tiger’s wife to know her husband is a whore.”
Hah! That’s freakin’ awesome.
Look, the truth is Tiger’s wife, Elin Nordegren shoulda known what the sport of golf is really like in the first place. Hasn’t she seen Caddyshack? The fact that this is a shock to anyone at all alarms me. Before I was married, even I almost slept with Tiger: he was always comin’ around the Predator Press HQ swishin around in a sundress, hooker pumps and fishnet stockings, tryin to chip away a little piece of your truly. Honest to god he almost fooled me, too: I would probably be in therapy right now if I hadn’t noticed his purse didn’t match his shoes, his lipstick seemed garishly over-pronounced for his skin tone, and his base/blush scheme was horribly wrong for his facial features and extremely non-flattering to his cheekbones.
“Aren’t you Tiger Woods?” I says.
“No. I’m Arnold Palmer,” he lied.
“Arnold Palmer is white,” I reply, proud to have expended virtually everything I know about golf in the conversation already. “He’s, like, Donny Osmond white.”
“So what are you saying?” says Tiger, indignant. “You would sleep with Arnold Palmer but you wouldn’t sleep with me? What is it? Because I’m black?”
“No, it's because I'm as hetero as it gets," I point out. "You could sharpen a pencil in my keyster.”
Tiger peers around cautiously, to see if anyone is listening. Leaning in he says quietly, “C’mon man. You can’t be serious. Let’s say you weren’t straight. You mean to tell me you would sleep with Arnold Palmer before you got you some of this?”
“Meh,” I says thoughtfully. “I would like to think Arnold Palmer would know better than to wear sundress and fishnet stockings.”
Tiger shrugs. Extracting a compact out of his handbag, he flips it open, checking his lipstick. “I think you’re just a racist,” he says, with finality.
“Look,” I says. “I’m not sleeping with you to prove I’m not a racist. But that is a cool trick. Does that work on women?”
"Having trouble with the ladies?"
"My last girlfriend died a few hours after our date."
"That's terrible."
"Yeah," I agree. "One minute me and Gertrude are watching the Blue Man Group, and a few hours later, pow."
"What happened?"
"The doctor said she poured QuickCrete into her vagina."
“You gotta be romantic with women," offers Tiger. "You gotta make a woman think she is the most important, beautiful, fantastic creature that has ever graced your presence.”
“I gotta lie?"
“Like a rug on Ambien.”
[LOBO]I’m feeling a little over-saturated with Tiger Woods news.
But am I above capitalizing on this topic? Oh hell no. Like Michael Jackson’s death and Kanye West’s VMA debacle, I’m going to be right up here pontificating with the rest of the world. I mean c’mon ... where else but America would a guy get busted for adultery, and mistresses -in numbers likely to exceed the double-digits- come out of the woodwork acting sanctimonious?
Think about it: given the sheer number of Tiger's apparent, eh, “dalliances,” is it even remotely possible that not a single one of them knew that Tiger -one of the most highly-sought media figures in the past ten years- was married? None of their friends? Colleagues? Unwilling to openly solicit exclusive deals with the media yet, to a (wo)man they all look into the camera and say, “Why am I coming forward? I just wanted Tiger’s wife to know her husband is a whore.”
Hah! That’s freakin’ awesome.
Look, the truth is Tiger’s wife, Elin Nordegren shoulda known what the sport of golf is really like in the first place. Hasn’t she seen Caddyshack? The fact that this is a shock to anyone at all alarms me. Before I was married, even I almost slept with Tiger: he was always comin’ around the Predator Press HQ swishin around in a sundress, hooker pumps and fishnet stockings, tryin to chip away a little piece of your truly. Honest to god he almost fooled me, too: I would probably be in therapy right now if I hadn’t noticed his purse didn’t match his shoes, his lipstick seemed garishly over-pronounced for his skin tone, and his base/blush scheme was horribly wrong for his facial features and extremely non-flattering to his cheekbones.“Aren’t you Tiger Woods?” I says.
“No. I’m Arnold Palmer,” he lied.
“Arnold Palmer is white,” I reply, proud to have expended virtually everything I know about golf in the conversation already. “He’s, like, Donny Osmond white.”
“So what are you saying?” says Tiger, indignant. “You would sleep with Arnold Palmer but you wouldn’t sleep with me? What is it? Because I’m black?”
“No, it's because I'm as hetero as it gets," I point out. "You could sharpen a pencil in my keyster.”
Tiger peers around cautiously, to see if anyone is listening. Leaning in he says quietly, “C’mon man. You can’t be serious. Let’s say you weren’t straight. You mean to tell me you would sleep with Arnold Palmer before you got you some of this?”
“Meh,” I says thoughtfully. “I would like to think Arnold Palmer would know better than to wear sundress and fishnet stockings.”Tiger shrugs. Extracting a compact out of his handbag, he flips it open, checking his lipstick. “I think you’re just a racist,” he says, with finality.
“Look,” I says. “I’m not sleeping with you to prove I’m not a racist. But that is a cool trick. Does that work on women?”
"Having trouble with the ladies?"
"My last girlfriend died a few hours after our date."
"That's terrible."
"Yeah," I agree. "One minute me and Gertrude are watching the Blue Man Group, and a few hours later, pow."
"What happened?""The doctor said she poured QuickCrete into her vagina."
“You gotta be romantic with women," offers Tiger. "You gotta make a woman think she is the most important, beautiful, fantastic creature that has ever graced your presence.”
“I gotta lie?"
“Like a rug on Ambien.”
Tuesday
Ragnarök
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I don’t really watch much prime time television –in fact I’ll wager 85-90% of what I watch is documentaries.
My favorite show, I guess, would be “The Universe” on the History channel.
At first blush this series appears to be a modern incarnation of Carl Sagan’s “Cosmos,” but it has one huge noteworthy difference: ‘The Universe’ is utterly devoid of the trademark feelgood optimism Sagan seemed to insist on. ‘The Universe,’ in contrast, makes it a point to scare the hell out of you: many a night I’ve found myself involuntarily rocking in an upright fetal position on the couch, making peace with Jesus while waiting for a rouge pulsar or quasar to incinerate the our atmosphere. Or perhaps an undetected black hole, swinging by at seven zillion miles per hour, pulling our solar system out of orbits around the sun. Or maybe just a good ‘ol fashioned colossal meteor strike that’ll bake the bones of the lucky to ash, and leave everyone else to slowly die in the subsequent nuclear winter.
Thusly rendered unable to sleep, over the next few hours I’ll try and relax myself with more uplifting material such as Forensic Files -a show often about solving unbelievably ruthless murders. This show typically runs back-to-back until about 5:00 am -at which point the rising sun will find me hiding under the coffee table, swinging the table lamp at anything vaguely resembling moving ankles with deadly precision. Everyone in the house –from Terri down to my cat Phil- now walks with a limp, but a few bruises are a very small price to pay for my personal safety. And if you think about it, what am I supposed to do? True, the house is probably oozing serial killers with ankles distinct in appearance ... but the last thing I would need is a bunch of selfish family members oozing nuclear fallout under the coffee table with me: if I get radioactive poisoning, who will be left to ensure the serial killers aren’t the only ones left to repopulate the Earth?
SO last night -with a 2-hour gap between intergalactic apocalypses and sociopathic killing sprees- I found myself deeply engrossed in a show highlighting the National Transportation Safety Bureau’s efforts to solve mysterious plane crashes. This was followed by another program dissecting the space shuttle Challenger’s final, fatal voyage.
And behind my bloodshot, riveted eyes, my brain started quietly working over the question Why am I doing this to myself?
I’m too young to remember Evil Knieval’s career when it was in it’s heyday, for instance. But I remember having the toy motorcycle [pictured], the Snake River Lunchbox, and a vague sense of hope that -whoever this lunatic was- he would somehow survive failing to jump something insane this week. Let’s face it: Knieval’s daredevil skills and stunts were in inverse proportion … the more his jumping skills seemed to diminish, the crazier his stunts became.
But at that age, I was out of the “media loop” and operating off of schoolyard legends. In retrospect, Evil Knieval’s daredevil career was already over … and this was probably good for Knieval: over a long enough timeline, him smashing headlong into the Sears Tower filled with half-starved piranhas, rabid ocelots and flame-spewing sulfuric acid in a futile attempt to jump it was inevitable. Imagine how many lunchboxes he would have sold after that!
Anyway. My point is I wasn’t hoping he would crash. In contrast, I was rooting for the guy to survive himself somehow. Was that just youthful naivety, or did I change? Or did we change as a culture collectively? Following my implied trend from Knieval, we see the dramatic rise of NASCAR –a sport enthusiasm for which I cynically suspect comes largely from the inevitable spectacular crashes. “America’s Funniest Home Videos” soon thereafter broke ground with the idea that watching a guy snap his femur in a bizarre trampoline accident would make we, the viewers, laugh and laugh and laugh. Add to the list the “Faces of Death” series and [admittedly poorly juxtaposed, but bearing mention] John Walsh vehicles. Today, we have websites and entire cable television networks wholly devoted to cataloging car crashes, tragedy, disasters, and general human boobery.
Don’t get me wrong ... I’m aware the Roman Coliseum was built for explicitly these same purposes. But haven't we evolved at all since then? Judging from the materialization of a lucrative schadenfreude-based, ShamWow-fueled economy, as a species we seem to love this stuff now just as much as we ever did -if not more.
But why?
[LOBO]I don’t really watch much prime time television –in fact I’ll wager 85-90% of what I watch is documentaries.
My favorite show, I guess, would be “The Universe” on the History channel.
At first blush this series appears to be a modern incarnation of Carl Sagan’s “Cosmos,” but it has one huge noteworthy difference: ‘The Universe’ is utterly devoid of the trademark feelgood optimism Sagan seemed to insist on. ‘The Universe,’ in contrast, makes it a point to scare the hell out of you: many a night I’ve found myself involuntarily rocking in an upright fetal position on the couch, making peace with Jesus while waiting for a rouge pulsar or quasar to incinerate the our atmosphere. Or perhaps an undetected black hole, swinging by at seven zillion miles per hour, pulling our solar system out of orbits around the sun. Or maybe just a good ‘ol fashioned colossal meteor strike that’ll bake the bones of the lucky to ash, and leave everyone else to slowly die in the subsequent nuclear winter.
Thusly rendered unable to sleep, over the next few hours I’ll try and relax myself with more uplifting material such as Forensic Files -a show often about solving unbelievably ruthless murders. This show typically runs back-to-back until about 5:00 am -at which point the rising sun will find me hiding under the coffee table, swinging the table lamp at anything vaguely resembling moving ankles with deadly precision. Everyone in the house –from Terri down to my cat Phil- now walks with a limp, but a few bruises are a very small price to pay for my personal safety. And if you think about it, what am I supposed to do? True, the house is probably oozing serial killers with ankles distinct in appearance ... but the last thing I would need is a bunch of selfish family members oozing nuclear fallout under the coffee table with me: if I get radioactive poisoning, who will be left to ensure the serial killers aren’t the only ones left to repopulate the Earth?SO last night -with a 2-hour gap between intergalactic apocalypses and sociopathic killing sprees- I found myself deeply engrossed in a show highlighting the National Transportation Safety Bureau’s efforts to solve mysterious plane crashes. This was followed by another program dissecting the space shuttle Challenger’s final, fatal voyage.
And behind my bloodshot, riveted eyes, my brain started quietly working over the question Why am I doing this to myself?I’m too young to remember Evil Knieval’s career when it was in it’s heyday, for instance. But I remember having the toy motorcycle [pictured], the Snake River Lunchbox, and a vague sense of hope that -whoever this lunatic was- he would somehow survive failing to jump something insane this week. Let’s face it: Knieval’s daredevil skills and stunts were in inverse proportion … the more his jumping skills seemed to diminish, the crazier his stunts became.
But at that age, I was out of the “media loop” and operating off of schoolyard legends. In retrospect, Evil Knieval’s daredevil career was already over … and this was probably good for Knieval: over a long enough timeline, him smashing headlong into the Sears Tower filled with half-starved piranhas, rabid ocelots and flame-spewing sulfuric acid in a futile attempt to jump it was inevitable. Imagine how many lunchboxes he would have sold after that!
Anyway. My point is I wasn’t hoping he would crash. In contrast, I was rooting for the guy to survive himself somehow. Was that just youthful naivety, or did I change? Or did we change as a culture collectively? Following my implied trend from Knieval, we see the dramatic rise of NASCAR –a sport enthusiasm for which I cynically suspect comes largely from the inevitable spectacular crashes. “America’s Funniest Home Videos” soon thereafter broke ground with the idea that watching a guy snap his femur in a bizarre trampoline accident would make we, the viewers, laugh and laugh and laugh. Add to the list the “Faces of Death” series and [admittedly poorly juxtaposed, but bearing mention] John Walsh vehicles. Today, we have websites and entire cable television networks wholly devoted to cataloging car crashes, tragedy, disasters, and general human boobery.Don’t get me wrong ... I’m aware the Roman Coliseum was built for explicitly these same purposes. But haven't we evolved at all since then? Judging from the materialization of a lucrative schadenfreude-based, ShamWow-fueled economy, as a species we seem to love this stuff now just as much as we ever did -if not more.
But why?
Monday
Predator Press Interviews: Doctor Harold Toboggans
Predator PressWhen my Fantasy Football Team failed to reign in an unexpectedly winnable matchup Sunday, I was miffed. And when my tire went flat yesterday, I resisted. But when I found out the Jon and Kate Gosselin were getting a divorce, that was the last straw.
-It was time to eliminate the source of all my misfortunes, none other than Brent Diggs.
The connection to football, automotive failure, ‘Jon and Kate Plus 8,’ and Brent Diggs I don't exactly understand. But I don’t understand how fusion works either, and it does. It’s called science. You should try it sometime.
In a ghillie suit made of almond tree branches I made, I followed Brent completely undetected. And in a brazen act of stealth and guile, I slipped silently behind him as he let himself in his front door. He tried to make me into think he did see me by saying “Hello LOBO” -but because I was in camouflage, I knew he was bluffing.
Conveniently, Brent left the room and I began to plot how and where his murder would take place. I decided that because it was almost Christmas, I would hide in his fireplace chimney ... and then, when he opened the flue for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve, POW.
The problem with this plan is that a ghillie suit made of almond tree branches is too flammable to wear hiding in a chimney, and I would need a trash can of adequate size to dispose of them properly so I not annoy Mrs Brent. I am a guest. This may be Brent’s murder, but that’s no excuse not to be tidy.
Never, in a million years, would I have expected Doctor Harold Toboggans to enter the room!
-Doctor Phil, maybe. But not Doctor T.
“Psst!” I whisper from the center of the room, waving subtly. “Doc! It's me, LOBO. I’m over here in camouflage!”"I was wondering why the Christmas tree reeked of Old Spice."
“Are you here to murder Brent Diggs too?”
"No, he is still useful to me as my web-lackey, working off his therapy bill and publishing my exploits. But I used up all my compassion today at the office, so if you simply must "bump him off" I won't stand in the way. In fact, unless your aim has improved, I won't even stand in the room."
“Probably a good idea," I agree. "Seein' as this is a murder, things could get ugly. Brent is an ex Marine, and Marines are extremely difficult to kill. Luckily I’m an ex-Marine too.”
"Reaaaaaaally?"
“No. I made that up. Besides I’m far too deadly for the Marines. They said so. It wouldn’t be fair to the other countries.”
"Well you definitely put the special back in Special Forces..."
"When did you start growing your mustache upside down?"
"Is it upside-down again?!!! I mean...well LOBO, sometimes when I put my entire focus on a single problem, like acquiring your debit card number, my follicles actually invert. It's quite a rare phenomenon, in fact now that Einstein is gone I think I'm the only one that still does it."
“Doc," I says, laying out on the couch. "I’ve probably got some time to kill before Brent gets back, and then something else to kill, and then more time. Mind doing an impromptu interview? On the last step of ‘800 Steps To Adequacy,’ and only $2,000 away from graduating to the 'Ladder of Adequate Empowerment,' I'm a huge fan of your work.”
"No session today, I'm fresh out of pepper spray. But be sure to purchase my latest self-help masterpiece, 'Learning to Live With Self-Loathing.' It's perfect for challenging cases like yourself."
"Wow!" I whistle, impressed. "That's the biggest book I've ever seen. It must be brilliant. And it just so happens I'm in dire need of a large, heavy and brilliant blunt object. How much is it?
"How much do you have?"
LOBO: Your new series, Mind Over Memphis, is a towering triumph of both science and cinematographical achievement. It’s like a burrito with a mountain of information for beef and intriguing guests for cheese ... all wrapped in a delightfully soft, still-steaming entertainment tortilla. Do you know if Brent has any food here?
DT: Yes, my videos are quite amazing. It's the sort of work Spielberg would do if he were ready to move to the next level. And yes, I think there is some jello in the back of the fridge that isn't too badly molded.LOBO: What will become of your Mind Over Memphis show if you find the fabled ‘Memphis’? And how did you get your mind over it without knowing where it is? And where was the rest of you at the time?
DT: Actually the title refers to the way my intellect towers over this town like a benevolent thundercloud of wisdom. Unfortunately, the city does stray form under my impressive shadow from time to time and I have to track it down. Such is the price of greatness.
LOBO: In your lecture series “Approaching the Outer Edge of Adequacy,” DVD 192 -roughly 80 minutes in- you said “over-adequacy can be just as dangerous as a lack of adequacy.” Can you elaborate on that theory?
DT: The pool of over-adequate individuals on this planet is fairly small, basically just me. And if there is one thing I don't tolerate, it is competition. It can be quite dangerous, if you know what I mean.
LOBO: In DVDs 404, 405 and 406, were you aware you had linguine in your mustache? I have always thought it was symbolic of something.
DT: LOBO, my entire life is a symbol of hope to lesser intellects...And to money launderers everywhere.
LOBO: I haven’t found any references to “Cryohydrotachophobia Purging” in your work. Yet during your “Crouching to Competence Wilderness Retreat,” you had me wear a sack over my head while the rest of the campers punched me -insisting it was the only cure for the morbid fear of rogue icebergs. Is that an experimental treatment? And why was everyone laughing?
DT: You just have to trust me, I'm the doctor.
LOBO: There has been some speculation –and numerous lawsuits- surrounding the fact that your anti-zombie patch Cerebitol causes sterility in a significant number of it’s users. Why people would people want to have babies in the face of the Zombie Menace is completely beyond me. Have you any thoughts you wish to share on this clearly-frivolous pending litigation?
DT: Really? That's excellent. It means I can market it as a contraceptive too. Your words ring with the sound of money.
LOBO: And you heard they can cause blindness, right?
DT: That was you. You aren't supposed to put the patches on your eyes.
LOBO: Pirates have zombie troubles too -and given the growth potential of that market, don't you think it's a mistake to alienate them? You could be a hero in their circles. Just imagine ... every time you vacationed in Somalia, they would buy you drinks and stuff. [wistful sigh] Say, you know what Doc? The mere calming effect of your presence has inexplicably diminished my desire to kill Brent. Is there a cure for that? Or am I just being lazy?
DT: Actually, you've been field testing my latest innovation, Slumberoos. Imagine a custom blend of ritalin and tranquilizers all together in a giant patch. Now take that patch and weave a snug undergarment out of it. Then sneak it into someones wardrobe and watch the therapy begin.
LOBO: Well, being unable to feel my legs while wearing them is difficult to get used to -but you can't beat this absorbency. By the way, this gum is terrible. I didn’t know gum spoiled. I probably shoulda known ‘cuz there was hairs in it.
DT: That's spirit gum. Don't worry about the lint, it's a great source of fiber.
LOBO: [slurring] Is that spearmint?
DT: No, that's Aqua Velva.
LOBO: Doctor T, you’re amazing. I’ll bet you could cure anyone. Any thing! I’ll bet you could take, like, sick polar bears that think they are deep sea bass and get them to think they are polar bears again. Or at least some kind of mammal ....DT: Ah LOBO, so many issues, so little time. I guess Brent lives another day.
LOBO: zzzzzzzzzz
Saturday
Dear Tiger Woods
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I think I speak for the entire world when I am the first to tell you the following:
Haw!!
It’s not that I’m not unsympathetic -as you can probably guess, I’ve seen my share of murderously pissed women. But she chased you out of your own house with a golf club! Hah! That’s like Bruce Lee’s wife beating his ass with his own nunchucks.
In any case, you do have my condolences; this event will doubtlessly culminate into the loss of numerous sponsors, as it doesn’t reflect the conduct of a professional golfer.
This is more of a NASCAR thing.
[LOBO]
I think I speak for the entire world when I am the first to tell you the following:Haw!!
It’s not that I’m not unsympathetic -as you can probably guess, I’ve seen my share of murderously pissed women. But she chased you out of your own house with a golf club! Hah! That’s like Bruce Lee’s wife beating his ass with his own nunchucks.
In any case, you do have my condolences; this event will doubtlessly culminate into the loss of numerous sponsors, as it doesn’t reflect the conduct of a professional golfer.
This is more of a NASCAR thing.
Wednesday
Adam Lambert is NOT Gay. SHUT UP SHUT UP I CAN'T HEAR YOU LA LA LA ...
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I don’t know when this crazy rumor got started, but you all should be ashamed of yourselves.
Not that there would be anything wrong with Lambert being gay … as you all know, Predator Press is a very, eh, alternate lifestyle-friendly publication, and we’ve always treated people committing wanton abominations against God and Nature with nothing but the utmost respect and dignity.
But if Lambert is gay, it’s only in the ‘happy’ sense of the word. Very happy. Are you jealous of guys that are happy? Is that it? Sure he wears eyeliner and likes to wear Michael Jackson memorabilia. Well so does Larry Craig upon occasion, and Larry Craig insists he isn’t gay. So there.
My suspicion is that the rumors got started by guys hoping Lambert is gay -an unfortunate consequence of Lambert's inexplicable tendency to repeat the phrase "I am gay" in numerous televised public forums. But, like teaching the Kamikaze pilot to land, the hopeful and heartbroken homosexual community is completely wasting their time: after having searched every phone book in the United States I discovered a Martha Lambert that lives in Des Moines.
Is it a coincidence we’ve never heard of Martha? I think not: obviously, this is Adam’s secret wife. Martha Lambert lives in a carefully-constructed obscurity that could only be manufactured by Hollywood -as a Union Steward for a company that subcontracts battleship construction for the U.S. Military Industrial Complex.Clearly, this whole controversial "homosexual" thing is a sophisticated sham in order to generate publicity -but can one judge Adam for chasing every American's dreams of fame, wealth, and the inalienable right to accessorize with feather boas and leather chaps? And when we do inevitably get around to judging, should we stop at chaps? I think we should throw in cowboy hats too -in one sweeping revolutionary piece of national legislation we make good taste a patriotic duty, and simultaneously wipe out a lot of bad music forever.
BREAKING NEWS UPDATE: 5:23 pm
While Martha Lambert's 'Facebook' is suspiciously devoid of any mention of Adam, she claims to enjoy baking cookies, singing in the church choir, and apparently shares Adam with her other husband Joe Lambert, six kids, and four grandchildren.
Friday
Mister Flirtypants
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I’m not exactly one of those priss readers that needs total tranquility. In fact, quite the contrary -one of the few benefits I got from college was an ability to study virtually anywhere; at the paltry price of $50,000, I could probably read retentively at a mortar range in full swing.
What I can’t do is resist writing. And for some reason reading –particularly reading something good- gives me that "itch." It's like a switch gets thrown, but the subsequent current isn't one-way like it's supposed to be; the computer, in this sense, becomes something that needs to be escaped ... left to my own devices, I could probably write a book faster than read one.
My usual escape method is to read over coffee at a local fast food chain. I won’t name it, but they make hamburgers and have an annoying add campaign with a creepy guy running around dressed like a king. Today, however, was flat out beautiful, and I decided to go outside, fire up a good cigar, and kill off what was left of a paperback I had been working on. Our patio furniture, nestled under a tree in a communal backyard, is comfortable, and my last Earthly thoughts before flipping to my bookmark are musings of how it hasn’t been stolen yet.
About ten pages in, I became distantly aware that my neighbor was working on his extremely Earthly thought-provoking lawn mower –starting it, revving it way up to alarming seeming pitches and volumes, shutting it off, and then repeating the process.
I don’t know why the guy even has a lawn mower. We have a gardener.
-Can’t we all at least pretend we’re not white trash, or should I just go ahead and get the obligatory 'Git R Done' tattoo?
In what can only be classified as a cosmic refutation, a previously undetected neighborhood stray cat chose that exact moment to jump under my elbows into my lap. I suppose I can't fault it for its good taste in humans, but that little bastard startled the bejesus out of me: CRASH goes the whole scene –and even as I’m picking up the broken ashtray while bein stared at by the bemused, somewhat amused feline culprit, Lawn Mower Man peeks around the corner.
“You okay?” he says. “I thought I heard a scream.”
“That wasn’t a scream,” I says. “It was more of a shriek.”
He looks around, perplexed. “No, it was definitely screaming.”
don’t make conversation don’t make conversation don’t make conversation don’t make conversation and above all else do not make conversation-
“Whatcha doin?” he askes.
“Thinking about going to get a burger,” I says, looking at my book forlornly
He pats for his wallet. “Hey can ya get me one too?”
“Um-“
“’Cept maybe a chicken sandwich,” he explains. “I can’t say much for their burgers honestly. But their commercials are hi-larious.”
[Smash-Cut: One Hour Later]
“What do you mean you couldn’t get any reading done?” asks Terri, home for lunch. “You don’t even have a job.”
“It’s a long story,” I says, wearing my 'walked right into that, didn't I?' scowl. “I’ll try again this afternoon.”
“Um,” says Terri. “My sister asked if you could pick up her kids. The weather report says it’s going to rain.”
“Rain?” I says skeptically. “There ain’t a cloud in the sky.”
“It’s going to rain.”
“It rains here once or twice a year. Your sister has done gone and lost her marble.”
Silence.
Sighing, I acquiesce. “What time do they get out?”
“In an hour.”
“Perfect,” I says. “I’ll just go there after dropping you off, get a nice quiet parking spot, and do my reading there.”
“Well hurry up. I have to be back at the office in ten minutes.” She winces. “Were you smoking cigars in here?”
“No,” I call truthfully, already in the next room. Spotting my paperback and my keys, I seize both. “You know I could get a lot more reading done if it wasn’t for kids. I don’t know what people see in them really.”
“We have kids.”
“That’s only because you won’t listen to reason.”
[Smash-Cut: Twenty Minutes Later]
Despite the fact that she even mentioned smoking in my hasty exit, I had forgotten my cigarettes.
-Which would have been fine really. I mean I can go an hour or two. But I would have had to buy some today anyway.
The 'problem' is I’ve already got this kickass parking spot, right smack in front of where the kids come out like a bull’s-eye. In about forty-five minutes this place is going to be jammed up like Chicago rush hour: if I move the car now, I'll be stuck out on the fringes -the outer circle, where the most anxiety-riddled late parents will be crushing in, streaming profanity and cutting each other off in an attempt to rescue their children from potential evil in a timely fashion.
Anyone that lives in California will tell you it's a criss-crossed nightmarish ziggedy-zagged tangle of one-way roads that all only seem to go the wrong way -it's like some freakish vortex previously impossible in physics: in a car, six blocks could require a detour through Las Vegas.
But I’m in this uncharacteristically non-lazy mood, and there’s a store about six blocks up 'as the crow flies.' Plus the weather is spectacular. I could walk this thing within a few minutes, and still have plenty of time to dive into the book.
[Smash-Cut: Twenty Minutes Later]
The rain blew in out of nowhere, right smack when I was leaving the Shell station -the apex of distance I could possibly be from my car.
I tried to wait it out. But as the time school was being let out grew ever closer, I was increasingly assured of what was inevitably going to follow.
"This is 2009!" I says to no one in particular, staring through posters of cigarette adds in the picture window at the torrential assault. "I should be able to press a button on my keys, and my car comes to get me. But what do we got? We got Twitter!"
The confused cashier blinks at me.
"Twitter!" I underline in frustration.
[Smash-Cut: Twenty Minutes Later]
It's like sprinting through a wall of water.
I was so wet within moments, there wouldn't have been a point in hurrying: I was soaked to the bone.
The reason I was hurrying? Well, let's just say because I probably could've done smarter things than freaking out that store cashier considering my circumstances. I could hear the police dispatch in my head: 'Unit 99, be on the lookout for an escaped mental patient, described simply as the only dumbass walking around in this rain.'
Once in the car I caught my breath, and assessed my situation while attempting to dry off with a newspaper I found in the back seat. The fact that my cellphone still worked was nothing short of amazing: as I set it on the passenger side, I notice my paperback.
The school bell rings.
Dammit!
-Well, at least I got this kickass parking. We’re going to be out of here in five minutes.
[Smash-Cut: Thirty Minutes Later]
I’m still in my bulls-eye parking spot.
And I am minus one nephew.
I know he’s fine, because I spotted him immediately after my niece came out; he’s pretty large for a thirteen year old, and you can’t miss him. He walked a few feet out the front of the school for a second, didn’t look at anything in particular, and turned right back around. I'm not exaggerating: he overlooked a vehicle -the closest vehicle to him- parked perpendicular, straight ahead, twenty feet away. And simply walked back into the atrium.
Now, while close enough to tell his eye color, he's well out of horn and yelling range; the air is thick in the din of laughs and yelps of hundreds of kids pouring out of the school eagerly, only to find themselves trapped together in an an increasingly-small amount of dry space.
But there, just inside the gates, my lingering nephew was lingering chattily.
With a girl.
And because I think this is funny, I give him a few minutes.
See, it was at that exact moment I was finding out from my niece they went to see the new Twilight sequel last night. Opening night. And she continued on to explain to me that he loved it.
Electing to wait a few more minutes for some merciless comedy because I’m busting him, I’m already spinning my evil webs.
“He must’ve really liked that smoochy movie,” I says to my niece, pointing at him through the fence. “Lookit him. He’s flirting.”
The timing was perfect. He was blushing heavily at that moment.
“Haha!” she says, seeing it immediately. “Mister Flirtypants!”
My work here is done.
But then the girl leaves, and he slips deeper back into the school.
-and then lost line of sight with him.
Five minutes later, and he’s still nowhere to be found.
He might’ve needed to talk to a teacher or something, I reason.
Then ten minutes. I’m still soaked, mind you. And uncomfortable, I’m getting squirmy and irritable.
“Did he have detention or something?” I ask.
“I don’t think so,” says my niece.
Then fifteen.
Now I’m physically at the only exit of the school, so I know he’s in there. But if I go in, I can’t be sure to catch him attempting to leave –and the idea of leaving my niece in the car alone should be avoided. She’s only twelve.
At fifteen minutes I’ve run up to the gates twice –through the rain- to see if he was somewhere just out of view, shielding himself from the torrents ... but he’s nowhere to be seen. At this point, the kids have really thinned out too: if I have to fool my Terri’s sister by getting another kid that looks like my nephew, I better get cracking ... this campus was going to be a ghost town in minutes.
"Twitter!" I sob at my bewildered niece.
At twenty minutes –just before I’m about to drag my niece with me to search the campus in the rain- I call Terri’s sister. I’m reluctant to go on an Elementary School because I’m not on either of these kids’ Emergency Contact list -plus, after the whole Shell station thing, a possible fugitive. But I got a missing kid here too, and was starting to get alarmed. Getting her on the phone with the school was probably a good idea.
“He’s on the other line with me,” she says with thinly-masked venom. ”He called from the principals office because you weren’t there. Are you running late-?”
-Pow, the waterlogged cellphone finally craps out.
Perfect.
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I’m not exactly one of those priss readers that needs total tranquility. In fact, quite the contrary -one of the few benefits I got from college was an ability to study virtually anywhere; at the paltry price of $50,000, I could probably read retentively at a mortar range in full swing.
What I can’t do is resist writing. And for some reason reading –particularly reading something good- gives me that "itch." It's like a switch gets thrown, but the subsequent current isn't one-way like it's supposed to be; the computer, in this sense, becomes something that needs to be escaped ... left to my own devices, I could probably write a book faster than read one.
My usual escape method is to read over coffee at a local fast food chain. I won’t name it, but they make hamburgers and have an annoying add campaign with a creepy guy running around dressed like a king. Today, however, was flat out beautiful, and I decided to go outside, fire up a good cigar, and kill off what was left of a paperback I had been working on. Our patio furniture, nestled under a tree in a communal backyard, is comfortable, and my last Earthly thoughts before flipping to my bookmark are musings of how it hasn’t been stolen yet.
About ten pages in, I became distantly aware that my neighbor was working on his extremely Earthly thought-provoking lawn mower –starting it, revving it way up to alarming seeming pitches and volumes, shutting it off, and then repeating the process.
I don’t know why the guy even has a lawn mower. We have a gardener.
-Can’t we all at least pretend we’re not white trash, or should I just go ahead and get the obligatory 'Git R Done' tattoo?
In what can only be classified as a cosmic refutation, a previously undetected neighborhood stray cat chose that exact moment to jump under my elbows into my lap. I suppose I can't fault it for its good taste in humans, but that little bastard startled the bejesus out of me: CRASH goes the whole scene –and even as I’m picking up the broken ashtray while bein stared at by the bemused, somewhat amused feline culprit, Lawn Mower Man peeks around the corner.
“You okay?” he says. “I thought I heard a scream.”
“That wasn’t a scream,” I says. “It was more of a shriek.”
He looks around, perplexed. “No, it was definitely screaming.”
don’t make conversation don’t make conversation don’t make conversation don’t make conversation and above all else do not make conversation-
“Whatcha doin?” he askes.
“Thinking about going to get a burger,” I says, looking at my book forlornly
He pats for his wallet. “Hey can ya get me one too?”
“Um-“
“’Cept maybe a chicken sandwich,” he explains. “I can’t say much for their burgers honestly. But their commercials are hi-larious.”
[Smash-Cut: One Hour Later]
“What do you mean you couldn’t get any reading done?” asks Terri, home for lunch. “You don’t even have a job.”
“It’s a long story,” I says, wearing my 'walked right into that, didn't I?' scowl. “I’ll try again this afternoon.”
“Um,” says Terri. “My sister asked if you could pick up her kids. The weather report says it’s going to rain.”
“Rain?” I says skeptically. “There ain’t a cloud in the sky.”
“It’s going to rain.”
“It rains here once or twice a year. Your sister has done gone and lost her marble.”
Silence.
Sighing, I acquiesce. “What time do they get out?”
“In an hour.”
“Perfect,” I says. “I’ll just go there after dropping you off, get a nice quiet parking spot, and do my reading there.”
“Well hurry up. I have to be back at the office in ten minutes.” She winces. “Were you smoking cigars in here?”
“No,” I call truthfully, already in the next room. Spotting my paperback and my keys, I seize both. “You know I could get a lot more reading done if it wasn’t for kids. I don’t know what people see in them really.”
“We have kids.”
“That’s only because you won’t listen to reason.”
[Smash-Cut: Twenty Minutes Later]
Despite the fact that she even mentioned smoking in my hasty exit, I had forgotten my cigarettes.
-Which would have been fine really. I mean I can go an hour or two. But I would have had to buy some today anyway.
The 'problem' is I’ve already got this kickass parking spot, right smack in front of where the kids come out like a bull’s-eye. In about forty-five minutes this place is going to be jammed up like Chicago rush hour: if I move the car now, I'll be stuck out on the fringes -the outer circle, where the most anxiety-riddled late parents will be crushing in, streaming profanity and cutting each other off in an attempt to rescue their children from potential evil in a timely fashion.
Anyone that lives in California will tell you it's a criss-crossed nightmarish ziggedy-zagged tangle of one-way roads that all only seem to go the wrong way -it's like some freakish vortex previously impossible in physics: in a car, six blocks could require a detour through Las Vegas.
But I’m in this uncharacteristically non-lazy mood, and there’s a store about six blocks up 'as the crow flies.' Plus the weather is spectacular. I could walk this thing within a few minutes, and still have plenty of time to dive into the book.
[Smash-Cut: Twenty Minutes Later]
The rain blew in out of nowhere, right smack when I was leaving the Shell station -the apex of distance I could possibly be from my car.
I tried to wait it out. But as the time school was being let out grew ever closer, I was increasingly assured of what was inevitably going to follow.
"This is 2009!" I says to no one in particular, staring through posters of cigarette adds in the picture window at the torrential assault. "I should be able to press a button on my keys, and my car comes to get me. But what do we got? We got Twitter!"
The confused cashier blinks at me.
"Twitter!" I underline in frustration.
[Smash-Cut: Twenty Minutes Later]
It's like sprinting through a wall of water.
I was so wet within moments, there wouldn't have been a point in hurrying: I was soaked to the bone.
The reason I was hurrying? Well, let's just say because I probably could've done smarter things than freaking out that store cashier considering my circumstances. I could hear the police dispatch in my head: 'Unit 99, be on the lookout for an escaped mental patient, described simply as the only dumbass walking around in this rain.'
Once in the car I caught my breath, and assessed my situation while attempting to dry off with a newspaper I found in the back seat. The fact that my cellphone still worked was nothing short of amazing: as I set it on the passenger side, I notice my paperback.
The school bell rings.
Dammit!
-Well, at least I got this kickass parking. We’re going to be out of here in five minutes.
[Smash-Cut: Thirty Minutes Later]
I’m still in my bulls-eye parking spot.
And I am minus one nephew.
I know he’s fine, because I spotted him immediately after my niece came out; he’s pretty large for a thirteen year old, and you can’t miss him. He walked a few feet out the front of the school for a second, didn’t look at anything in particular, and turned right back around. I'm not exaggerating: he overlooked a vehicle -the closest vehicle to him- parked perpendicular, straight ahead, twenty feet away. And simply walked back into the atrium.
Now, while close enough to tell his eye color, he's well out of horn and yelling range; the air is thick in the din of laughs and yelps of hundreds of kids pouring out of the school eagerly, only to find themselves trapped together in an an increasingly-small amount of dry space.
But there, just inside the gates, my lingering nephew was lingering chattily.
With a girl.
And because I think this is funny, I give him a few minutes.
See, it was at that exact moment I was finding out from my niece they went to see the new Twilight sequel last night. Opening night. And she continued on to explain to me that he loved it.
Electing to wait a few more minutes for some merciless comedy because I’m busting him, I’m already spinning my evil webs.
“He must’ve really liked that smoochy movie,” I says to my niece, pointing at him through the fence. “Lookit him. He’s flirting.”
The timing was perfect. He was blushing heavily at that moment.
“Haha!” she says, seeing it immediately. “Mister Flirtypants!”
My work here is done.
But then the girl leaves, and he slips deeper back into the school.
-and then lost line of sight with him.
Five minutes later, and he’s still nowhere to be found.
He might’ve needed to talk to a teacher or something, I reason.
Then ten minutes. I’m still soaked, mind you. And uncomfortable, I’m getting squirmy and irritable.
“Did he have detention or something?” I ask.
“I don’t think so,” says my niece.
Then fifteen.
Now I’m physically at the only exit of the school, so I know he’s in there. But if I go in, I can’t be sure to catch him attempting to leave –and the idea of leaving my niece in the car alone should be avoided. She’s only twelve.
At fifteen minutes I’ve run up to the gates twice –through the rain- to see if he was somewhere just out of view, shielding himself from the torrents ... but he’s nowhere to be seen. At this point, the kids have really thinned out too: if I have to fool my Terri’s sister by getting another kid that looks like my nephew, I better get cracking ... this campus was going to be a ghost town in minutes.
"Twitter!" I sob at my bewildered niece.
At twenty minutes –just before I’m about to drag my niece with me to search the campus in the rain- I call Terri’s sister. I’m reluctant to go on an Elementary School because I’m not on either of these kids’ Emergency Contact list -plus, after the whole Shell station thing, a possible fugitive. But I got a missing kid here too, and was starting to get alarmed. Getting her on the phone with the school was probably a good idea.
“He’s on the other line with me,” she says with thinly-masked venom. ”He called from the principals office because you weren’t there. Are you running late-?”
-Pow, the waterlogged cellphone finally craps out.
Perfect.
[LOBO]
I’m not exactly one of those priss readers that needs total tranquility. In fact, quite the contrary -one of the few benefits I got from college was an ability to study virtually anywhere; at the paltry price of $50,000, I could probably read retentively at a mortar range in full swing.
What I can’t do is resist writing. And for some reason reading –particularly reading something good- gives me that "itch." It's like a switch gets thrown, but the subsequent current isn't one-way like it's supposed to be; the computer, in this sense, becomes something that needs to be escaped ... left to my own devices, I could probably write a book faster than read one.
My usual escape method is to read over coffee at a local fast food chain. I won’t name it, but they make hamburgers and have an annoying add campaign with a creepy guy running around dressed like a king. Today, however, was flat out beautiful, and I decided to go outside, fire up a good cigar, and kill off what was left of a paperback I had been working on. Our patio furniture, nestled under a tree in a communal backyard, is comfortable, and my last Earthly thoughts before flipping to my bookmark are musings of how it hasn’t been stolen yet.
About ten pages in, I became distantly aware that my neighbor was working on his extremely Earthly thought-provoking lawn mower –starting it, revving it way up to alarming seeming pitches and volumes, shutting it off, and then repeating the process.
I don’t know why the guy even has a lawn mower. We have a gardener.
-Can’t we all at least pretend we’re not white trash, or should I just go ahead and get the obligatory 'Git R Done' tattoo?
In what can only be classified as a cosmic refutation, a previously undetected neighborhood stray cat chose that exact moment to jump under my elbows into my lap. I suppose I can't fault it for its good taste in humans, but that little bastard startled the bejesus out of me: CRASH goes the whole scene –and even as I’m picking up the broken ashtray while bein stared at by the bemused, somewhat amused feline culprit, Lawn Mower Man peeks around the corner.
“You okay?” he says. “I thought I heard a scream.”
“That wasn’t a scream,” I says. “It was more of a shriek.”
He looks around, perplexed. “No, it was definitely screaming.”
don’t make conversation don’t make conversation don’t make conversation don’t make conversation and above all else do not make conversation-
“Whatcha doin?” he askes.
“Thinking about going to get a burger,” I says, looking at my book forlornly
He pats for his wallet. “Hey can ya get me one too?”
“Um-“
“’Cept maybe a chicken sandwich,” he explains. “I can’t say much for their burgers honestly. But their commercials are hi-larious.”
[Smash-Cut: One Hour Later]
“What do you mean you couldn’t get any reading done?” asks Terri, home for lunch. “You don’t even have a job.”
“It’s a long story,” I says, wearing my 'walked right into that, didn't I?' scowl. “I’ll try again this afternoon.”
“Um,” says Terri. “My sister asked if you could pick up her kids. The weather report says it’s going to rain.”
“Rain?” I says skeptically. “There ain’t a cloud in the sky.”
“It’s going to rain.”
“It rains here once or twice a year. Your sister has done gone and lost her marble.”
Silence.
Sighing, I acquiesce. “What time do they get out?”
“In an hour.”
“Perfect,” I says. “I’ll just go there after dropping you off, get a nice quiet parking spot, and do my reading there.”
“Well hurry up. I have to be back at the office in ten minutes.” She winces. “Were you smoking cigars in here?”
“No,” I call truthfully, already in the next room. Spotting my paperback and my keys, I seize both. “You know I could get a lot more reading done if it wasn’t for kids. I don’t know what people see in them really.”
“We have kids.”
“That’s only because you won’t listen to reason.”
[Smash-Cut: Twenty Minutes Later]
Despite the fact that she even mentioned smoking in my hasty exit, I had forgotten my cigarettes.
-Which would have been fine really. I mean I can go an hour or two. But I would have had to buy some today anyway.
The 'problem' is I’ve already got this kickass parking spot, right smack in front of where the kids come out like a bull’s-eye. In about forty-five minutes this place is going to be jammed up like Chicago rush hour: if I move the car now, I'll be stuck out on the fringes -the outer circle, where the most anxiety-riddled late parents will be crushing in, streaming profanity and cutting each other off in an attempt to rescue their children from potential evil in a timely fashion.
Anyone that lives in California will tell you it's a criss-crossed nightmarish ziggedy-zagged tangle of one-way roads that all only seem to go the wrong way -it's like some freakish vortex previously impossible in physics: in a car, six blocks could require a detour through Las Vegas.
But I’m in this uncharacteristically non-lazy mood, and there’s a store about six blocks up 'as the crow flies.' Plus the weather is spectacular. I could walk this thing within a few minutes, and still have plenty of time to dive into the book.
[Smash-Cut: Twenty Minutes Later]
The rain blew in out of nowhere, right smack when I was leaving the Shell station -the apex of distance I could possibly be from my car.
I tried to wait it out. But as the time school was being let out grew ever closer, I was increasingly assured of what was inevitably going to follow.
"This is 2009!" I says to no one in particular, staring through posters of cigarette adds in the picture window at the torrential assault. "I should be able to press a button on my keys, and my car comes to get me. But what do we got? We got Twitter!"
The confused cashier blinks at me.
"Twitter!" I underline in frustration.
[Smash-Cut: Twenty Minutes Later]
It's like sprinting through a wall of water.
I was so wet within moments, there wouldn't have been a point in hurrying: I was soaked to the bone.
The reason I was hurrying? Well, let's just say because I probably could've done smarter things than freaking out that store cashier considering my circumstances. I could hear the police dispatch in my head: 'Unit 99, be on the lookout for an escaped mental patient, described simply as the only dumbass walking around in this rain.'
Once in the car I caught my breath, and assessed my situation while attempting to dry off with a newspaper I found in the back seat. The fact that my cellphone still worked was nothing short of amazing: as I set it on the passenger side, I notice my paperback.
The school bell rings.
Dammit!
-Well, at least I got this kickass parking. We’re going to be out of here in five minutes.
[Smash-Cut: Thirty Minutes Later]
I’m still in my bulls-eye parking spot.
And I am minus one nephew.
I know he’s fine, because I spotted him immediately after my niece came out; he’s pretty large for a thirteen year old, and you can’t miss him. He walked a few feet out the front of the school for a second, didn’t look at anything in particular, and turned right back around. I'm not exaggerating: he overlooked a vehicle -the closest vehicle to him- parked perpendicular, straight ahead, twenty feet away. And simply walked back into the atrium.
Now, while close enough to tell his eye color, he's well out of horn and yelling range; the air is thick in the din of laughs and yelps of hundreds of kids pouring out of the school eagerly, only to find themselves trapped together in an an increasingly-small amount of dry space.
But there, just inside the gates, my lingering nephew was lingering chattily.
With a girl.
And because I think this is funny, I give him a few minutes.
See, it was at that exact moment I was finding out from my niece they went to see the new Twilight sequel last night. Opening night. And she continued on to explain to me that he loved it.
Electing to wait a few more minutes for some merciless comedy because I’m busting him, I’m already spinning my evil webs.
“He must’ve really liked that smoochy movie,” I says to my niece, pointing at him through the fence. “Lookit him. He’s flirting.”
The timing was perfect. He was blushing heavily at that moment.
“Haha!” she says, seeing it immediately. “Mister Flirtypants!”
My work here is done.
But then the girl leaves, and he slips deeper back into the school.
-and then lost line of sight with him.
Five minutes later, and he’s still nowhere to be found.
He might’ve needed to talk to a teacher or something, I reason.
Then ten minutes. I’m still soaked, mind you. And uncomfortable, I’m getting squirmy and irritable.
“Did he have detention or something?” I ask.
“I don’t think so,” says my niece.
Then fifteen.
Now I’m physically at the only exit of the school, so I know he’s in there. But if I go in, I can’t be sure to catch him attempting to leave –and the idea of leaving my niece in the car alone should be avoided. She’s only twelve.
At fifteen minutes I’ve run up to the gates twice –through the rain- to see if he was somewhere just out of view, shielding himself from the torrents ... but he’s nowhere to be seen. At this point, the kids have really thinned out too: if I have to fool my Terri’s sister by getting another kid that looks like my nephew, I better get cracking ... this campus was going to be a ghost town in minutes.
"Twitter!" I sob at my bewildered niece.
At twenty minutes –just before I’m about to drag my niece with me to search the campus in the rain- I call Terri’s sister. I’m reluctant to go on an Elementary School because I’m not on either of these kids’ Emergency Contact list -plus, after the whole Shell station thing, a possible fugitive. But I got a missing kid here too, and was starting to get alarmed. Getting her on the phone with the school was probably a good idea.
“He’s on the other line with me,” she says with thinly-masked venom. ”He called from the principals office because you weren’t there. Are you running late-?”
-Pow, the waterlogged cellphone finally craps out.
Perfect.
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I’m not exactly one of those priss readers that needs total tranquility. In fact, quite the contrary -one of the few benefits I got from college was an ability to study virtually anywhere; at the paltry price of $50,000, I could probably read retentively at a mortar range in full swing.
What I can’t do is resist writing. And for some reason reading –particularly reading something good- gives me that "itch." It's like a switch gets thrown, but the subsequent current isn't one-way like it's supposed to be; the computer, in this sense, becomes something that needs to be escaped ... left to my own devices, I could probably write a book faster than read one.
My usual escape method is to read over coffee at a local fast food chain. I won’t name it, but they make hamburgers and have an annoying add campaign with a creepy guy running around dressed like a king. Today, however, was flat out beautiful, and I decided to go outside, fire up a good cigar, and kill off what was left of a paperback I had been working on. Our patio furniture, nestled under a tree in a communal backyard, is comfortable, and my last Earthly thoughts before flipping to my bookmark are musings of how it hasn’t been stolen yet.
About ten pages in, I became distantly aware that my neighbor was working on his extremely Earthly thought-provoking lawn mower –starting it, revving it way up to alarming seeming pitches and volumes, shutting it off, and then repeating the process.
I don’t know why the guy even has a lawn mower. We have a gardener.
-Can’t we all at least pretend we’re not white trash, or should I just go ahead and get the obligatory 'Git R Done' tattoo?
In what can only be classified as a cosmic refutation, a previously undetected neighborhood stray cat chose that exact moment to jump under my elbows into my lap. I suppose I can't fault it for its good taste in humans, but that little bastard startled the bejesus out of me: CRASH goes the whole scene –and even as I’m picking up the broken ashtray while bein stared at by the bemused, somewhat amused feline culprit, Lawn Mower Man peeks around the corner.
“You okay?” he says. “I thought I heard a scream.”
“That wasn’t a scream,” I says. “It was more of a shriek.”
He looks around, perplexed. “No, it was definitely screaming.”
don’t make conversation don’t make conversation don’t make conversation don’t make conversation and above all else do not make conversation-
“Whatcha doin?” he askes.
“Thinking about going to get a burger,” I says, looking at my book forlornly
He pats for his wallet. “Hey can ya get me one too?”
“Um-“
“’Cept maybe a chicken sandwich,” he explains. “I can’t say much for their burgers honestly. But their commercials are hi-larious.”
[Smash-Cut: One Hour Later]
“What do you mean you couldn’t get any reading done?” asks Terri, home for lunch. “You don’t even have a job.”
“It’s a long story,” I says, wearing my 'walked right into that, didn't I?' scowl. “I’ll try again this afternoon.”
“Um,” says Terri. “My sister asked if you could pick up her kids. The weather report says it’s going to rain.”
“Rain?” I says skeptically. “There ain’t a cloud in the sky.”
“It’s going to rain.”
“It rains here once or twice a year. Your sister has done gone and lost her marble.”
Silence.
Sighing, I acquiesce. “What time do they get out?”
“In an hour.”
“Perfect,” I says. “I’ll just go there after dropping you off, get a nice quiet parking spot, and do my reading there.”
“Well hurry up. I have to be back at the office in ten minutes.” She winces. “Were you smoking cigars in here?”
“No,” I call truthfully, already in the next room. Spotting my paperback and my keys, I seize both. “You know I could get a lot more reading done if it wasn’t for kids. I don’t know what people see in them really.”
“We have kids.”
“That’s only because you won’t listen to reason.”
[Smash-Cut: Twenty Minutes Later]
Despite the fact that she even mentioned smoking in my hasty exit, I had forgotten my cigarettes.
-Which would have been fine really. I mean I can go an hour or two. But I would have had to buy some today anyway.
The 'problem' is I’ve already got this kickass parking spot, right smack in front of where the kids come out like a bull’s-eye. In about forty-five minutes this place is going to be jammed up like Chicago rush hour: if I move the car now, I'll be stuck out on the fringes -the outer circle, where the most anxiety-riddled late parents will be crushing in, streaming profanity and cutting each other off in an attempt to rescue their children from potential evil in a timely fashion.
Anyone that lives in California will tell you it's a criss-crossed nightmarish ziggedy-zagged tangle of one-way roads that all only seem to go the wrong way -it's like some freakish vortex previously impossible in physics: in a car, six blocks could require a detour through Las Vegas.
But I’m in this uncharacteristically non-lazy mood, and there’s a store about six blocks up 'as the crow flies.' Plus the weather is spectacular. I could walk this thing within a few minutes, and still have plenty of time to dive into the book.
[Smash-Cut: Twenty Minutes Later]
The rain blew in out of nowhere, right smack when I was leaving the Shell station -the apex of distance I could possibly be from my car.
I tried to wait it out. But as the time school was being let out grew ever closer, I was increasingly assured of what was inevitably going to follow.
"This is 2009!" I says to no one in particular, staring through posters of cigarette adds in the picture window at the torrential assault. "I should be able to press a button on my keys, and my car comes to get me. But what do we got? We got Twitter!"
The confused cashier blinks at me.
"Twitter!" I underline in frustration.
[Smash-Cut: Twenty Minutes Later]
It's like sprinting through a wall of water.
I was so wet within moments, there wouldn't have been a point in hurrying: I was soaked to the bone.
The reason I was hurrying? Well, let's just say because I probably could've done smarter things than freaking out that store cashier considering my circumstances. I could hear the police dispatch in my head: 'Unit 99, be on the lookout for an escaped mental patient, described simply as the only dumbass walking around in this rain.'
Once in the car I caught my breath, and assessed my situation while attempting to dry off with a newspaper I found in the back seat. The fact that my cellphone still worked was nothing short of amazing: as I set it on the passenger side, I notice my paperback.
The school bell rings.
Dammit!
-Well, at least I got this kickass parking. We’re going to be out of here in five minutes.
[Smash-Cut: Thirty Minutes Later]
I’m still in my bulls-eye parking spot.
And I am minus one nephew.
I know he’s fine, because I spotted him immediately after my niece came out; he’s pretty large for a thirteen year old, and you can’t miss him. He walked a few feet out the front of the school for a second, didn’t look at anything in particular, and turned right back around. I'm not exaggerating: he overlooked a vehicle -the closest vehicle to him- parked perpendicular, straight ahead, twenty feet away. And simply walked back into the atrium.
Now, while close enough to tell his eye color, he's well out of horn and yelling range; the air is thick in the din of laughs and yelps of hundreds of kids pouring out of the school eagerly, only to find themselves trapped together in an an increasingly-small amount of dry space.
But there, just inside the gates, my lingering nephew was lingering chattily.
With a girl.
And because I think this is funny, I give him a few minutes.
See, it was at that exact moment I was finding out from my niece they went to see the new Twilight sequel last night. Opening night. And she continued on to explain to me that he loved it.
Electing to wait a few more minutes for some merciless comedy because I’m busting him, I’m already spinning my evil webs.
“He must’ve really liked that smoochy movie,” I says to my niece, pointing at him through the fence. “Lookit him. He’s flirting.”
The timing was perfect. He was blushing heavily at that moment.
“Haha!” she says, seeing it immediately. “Mister Flirtypants!”
My work here is done.
But then the girl leaves, and he slips deeper back into the school.
-and then lost line of sight with him.
Five minutes later, and he’s still nowhere to be found.
He might’ve needed to talk to a teacher or something, I reason.
Then ten minutes. I’m still soaked, mind you. And uncomfortable, I’m getting squirmy and irritable.
“Did he have detention or something?” I ask.
“I don’t think so,” says my niece.
Then fifteen.
Now I’m physically at the only exit of the school, so I know he’s in there. But if I go in, I can’t be sure to catch him attempting to leave –and the idea of leaving my niece in the car alone should be avoided. She’s only twelve.
At fifteen minutes I’ve run up to the gates twice –through the rain- to see if he was somewhere just out of view, shielding himself from the torrents ... but he’s nowhere to be seen. At this point, the kids have really thinned out too: if I have to fool my Terri’s sister by getting another kid that looks like my nephew, I better get cracking ... this campus was going to be a ghost town in minutes.
"Twitter!" I sob at my bewildered niece.
At twenty minutes –just before I’m about to drag my niece with me to search the campus in the rain- I call Terri’s sister. I’m reluctant to go on an Elementary School because I’m not on either of these kids’ Emergency Contact list -plus, after the whole Shell station thing, a possible fugitive. But I got a missing kid here too, and was starting to get alarmed. Getting her on the phone with the school was probably a good idea.
“He’s on the other line with me,” she says with thinly-masked venom. ”He called from the principals office because you weren’t there. Are you running late-?”
-Pow, the waterlogged cellphone finally craps out.
Perfect.
Thursday
The Road to a Woman's Heart
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“Alright,” I says, setting the phone on the counter so I can get back to the thick, red simmer. “The hamburger was done, so I went ahead and added the two cans of sauce.”
I’m a little surprised I don’t mind learning to cook -but then again, I’m not proud I don’t have a job either.
”And you already cooked the pasta?” Terri squawks over the speakerphone.
“Yeah,” I says, talking sideways as I drain it. “I wouldn’t have called, but I don’t know if you need to add anything. I can take it off the heat until you get here.”
Terri just got promoted, and I’m “pitching in.” Her training schedule is hellish.
”Well, it's done,” she says. "We have parmesan cheese, right?"
It seems the least I can do.
“Wait,” I says. “Your ‘Secret Family Recipe’ for spaghetti is browned hamburger and canned sauce?”
”That’s it,” she says. ”We should be there in about five minutes.”
-because now she can buy me shit.
“Baby, you’re a genius!”
[LOBO]“Alright,” I says, setting the phone on the counter so I can get back to the thick, red simmer. “The hamburger was done, so I went ahead and added the two cans of sauce.”
I’m a little surprised I don’t mind learning to cook -but then again, I’m not proud I don’t have a job either.
”And you already cooked the pasta?” Terri squawks over the speakerphone.
“Yeah,” I says, talking sideways as I drain it. “I wouldn’t have called, but I don’t know if you need to add anything. I can take it off the heat until you get here.”
Terri just got promoted, and I’m “pitching in.” Her training schedule is hellish.
”Well, it's done,” she says. "We have parmesan cheese, right?"
It seems the least I can do.
“Wait,” I says. “Your ‘Secret Family Recipe’ for spaghetti is browned hamburger and canned sauce?”
”That’s it,” she says. ”We should be there in about five minutes.”
-because now she can buy me shit.
“Baby, you’re a genius!”
Wednesday
9/11 Trials: Now All We Need Is A Jury
Predator Press
[LOBO]
So where do we get twelve people that don’t know about September 11?
“Juror Number Nine,” says the attorney, pushing his glasses back on his nose. “Where exactly have you been for the last eight years?”
“I was chained down in a hole, where a masked French guy in a dress fired a staple gun at me while singing show tunes.”
“Okay you're cool,” says the attorney, checking a box on his clipboard. “How about you Number Ten?”
“I was firing staples and singing show tunes at a gentleman I had chained down in a hole.”
“Nice dress,” observes the attorney. “But can you serve? You seem like a very busy guy.”
“Oui, monsieur. I am all out of staples.”
“Alright, you're in," the attorney nods. "What about you, Number Eleven?”
“¿Qué pasa?”
"Perfect. Twelve?"
"I was shipwrecked on an uncharted island, somewhere off of the coast of Guam."
The attorney frowns.
"Doesn't that call your citizenship into question?"
[LOBO]So where do we get twelve people that don’t know about September 11?
“Juror Number Nine,” says the attorney, pushing his glasses back on his nose. “Where exactly have you been for the last eight years?”
“I was chained down in a hole, where a masked French guy in a dress fired a staple gun at me while singing show tunes.”
“Okay you're cool,” says the attorney, checking a box on his clipboard. “How about you Number Ten?”
“I was firing staples and singing show tunes at a gentleman I had chained down in a hole.”
“Nice dress,” observes the attorney. “But can you serve? You seem like a very busy guy.”
“Oui, monsieur. I am all out of staples.”
“Alright, you're in," the attorney nods. "What about you, Number Eleven?”
“¿Qué pasa?”
"Perfect. Twelve?"
"I was shipwrecked on an uncharted island, somewhere off of the coast of Guam."
The attorney frowns.
"Doesn't that call your citizenship into question?"
Tuesday
Christmas? AGAIN!?
Predator Press [LOBO]
I told Terri we shouldn't take last year's Christmas tree down -and just like I predicted, pow, they're havin another one already.
[*sigh*]
... Our lives would be so much easier if she just listened to me once in a while.
Monday
So Long, Suckers -I'm RICH!
-or "Disposable Outcome"
Predator Press
[LOBO]
From: CBN (cntrlbankofnigeria@gmail.com)
Sent: Mon 11/16/09 1:36 AM
To: [none]
Good day,
This is to notify you that after we met today with The President,Finance Minister,The senators,House of Representative and The Central Bank Governor and we came to a conclusion that we have to pay you the sum of USD1.5M.
The payment will be via ATM CARD,therefore send your name and address/tel. number.
Your immediate respond is urgently needed.
Mailafia.
From: LOBO
Sent: Tues 11/17/09 8:36 PM
To: From cbn (cntrlbankofnigeria@gmail.com)
Dearest Mailifia,
First let me express how overwhelmed I am at such an impressive collection of dignitaries that owe me money. It doesn’t happen very often –indeed, my mail is so full of indignants, I might have overlooked this entirely.
Without meaning to offend, would you be so kind as to prompt my memory as to who you are? The name ’Mailifia’ doesn’t ring a bell. Is that Jewish? There’s a Jewish guy out here that makes cool movies, but Steven Spielberg doesn’t return my calls ... and has thus far returned every screenplay I’ve sent him doodled with pornography and smelling suspiciously like urine.
And I don’t offhand remember many business dealings in Nigeria –in fact I don’t really have any idea where Nigeria even is geographically. So-Cal maybe? There was this one time I had to drive through Memphis and had to stop for gas. I bought 9 gallons, a bag of Funyuns, and a box of Chicklets. I was fully an hour away before I discovered that the Chicklets weren’t in the bag, and solemnly swore from that moment forward I would never leave the United States ever again.
Is this my Chicklet refund, plus accrued interest? I must say if you have gone through all this trouble to track me down and “make things right,” it might change my low opinion of foreigners -particularly ones too dumb to move out of their third world, backwater provinces- and vastly improve our diplomatic relations.
Visa # 9748-5099-1818-7707
MasterCard # 8080-7891-4504-9909
The MasterCard is actually my wife’s, but she’s cool. Both accounts only contain a few thousand dollars so you might need the ‘PIN’ numbers too, so the bank doesn't flag this disproportionately large deposit: they are both “7984.”
In the spirit of global peace, I accept this gesture from the Great Nation of Tennessee. May our countries enjoy many years of mutual prosperity, and the time where we bomb the crap out of you be far, far in the distant future.
-LOBO
Predator Press
[LOBO]From: CBN (cntrlbankofnigeria@gmail.com)
Sent: Mon 11/16/09 1:36 AM
To: [none]
Good day,
This is to notify you that after we met today with The President,Finance Minister,The senators,House of Representative and The Central Bank Governor and we came to a conclusion that we have to pay you the sum of USD1.5M.
The payment will be via ATM CARD,therefore send your name and address/tel. number.
Your immediate respond is urgently needed.
Mailafia.
From: LOBO
Sent: Tues 11/17/09 8:36 PM
To: From cbn (cntrlbankofnigeria@gmail.com)
Dearest Mailifia,
First let me express how overwhelmed I am at such an impressive collection of dignitaries that owe me money. It doesn’t happen very often –indeed, my mail is so full of indignants, I might have overlooked this entirely.
Without meaning to offend, would you be so kind as to prompt my memory as to who you are? The name ’Mailifia’ doesn’t ring a bell. Is that Jewish? There’s a Jewish guy out here that makes cool movies, but Steven Spielberg doesn’t return my calls ... and has thus far returned every screenplay I’ve sent him doodled with pornography and smelling suspiciously like urine.
And I don’t offhand remember many business dealings in Nigeria –in fact I don’t really have any idea where Nigeria even is geographically. So-Cal maybe? There was this one time I had to drive through Memphis and had to stop for gas. I bought 9 gallons, a bag of Funyuns, and a box of Chicklets. I was fully an hour away before I discovered that the Chicklets weren’t in the bag, and solemnly swore from that moment forward I would never leave the United States ever again.
Is this my Chicklet refund, plus accrued interest? I must say if you have gone through all this trouble to track me down and “make things right,” it might change my low opinion of foreigners -particularly ones too dumb to move out of their third world, backwater provinces- and vastly improve our diplomatic relations.Visa # 9748-5099-1818-7707
MasterCard # 8080-7891-4504-9909
The MasterCard is actually my wife’s, but she’s cool. Both accounts only contain a few thousand dollars so you might need the ‘PIN’ numbers too, so the bank doesn't flag this disproportionately large deposit: they are both “7984.”
In the spirit of global peace, I accept this gesture from the Great Nation of Tennessee. May our countries enjoy many years of mutual prosperity, and the time where we bomb the crap out of you be far, far in the distant future.
-LOBO
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