Predator Press Interviews: Bloggers of Note

Predator Press

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It grows increasingly difficult to write when my subconscious is beleaguered by strange disappearances around the 'Blogosphere' ... and as I arrived at my Angry Seafood Interview, it occurred to me that perhaps I was closer to solving the mystery than I initially thought.

Convinced I had stumbled upon what might be the key to unravel this puzzle, I employed the full might of my radiant braniosity:

Clue 1: Consider the name of the blog. "Angry" is the very first word, and followed closely by "Seafood", a food obtained from the sea -hence it's name.

Clue 2: People have disappeared at sea before. In fact, I'm almost certain of it. I read it in a book somewhere.

Could "Angry Seafood" be taunting us with the whereabouts of our wayward blog colleagues? And -infinitely more important- might I be walking right into a trap?

Clue 3: The vanishing of "The Frogster", who allegedly abandoned his brilliant and lucrative rockstar-type lifestyle of blogging in favor of playing piano. I never believed that for a second. Just try to imagine yourself laying on a pile of cash sandwiched between six or seven exhausted coeds and just deciding "You know, I think I want to give this all up to play the saxophone."

Oh no. That's just not rational.

Something was up, and I strongly suspected Angry Seafood was behind it.

I think the Frogster was trying to tell us something, and finding that piano might be crucial.

But throughout the course of the interview, I saw no piano.

... I brought my baseball bat for nothing.


***

The complete absence of any piano whatsoever did not surprise me; surely upon hearing of my visit, the entire Angry Seafood compound was cleared of any scrap of evidence.

I saw nothing suspicious at all: a clear indication that every last precaution had been taken, and that Angry Seafood was guilty as all hell.

Still, due to sheer size, the vast Angry Seafood lair had lapses in security. I found numerous opportunities to snoop unobserved.

While hoping to Find Boddie in one of the turrets, I found a leftover interview question by Don Lewis:

AS: Which politician would be the funniest drunk and why?

DL: Practically any of them. I mean, why would I want to watch those guys while I'm sober?

Oh...wait a minute... Did I misunderstand the question?

AS: And what should we do about stupid people?

DL: Continue sending them to Washington. At least that way they're not here trying to play footsy with me from the next stall. I'd prefer sending them abroad, but as we recently saw with Martha Stewart, the Brits are wising up.

The Angry Seafood Psychiatric Ward had only one occupant. He claimed to be the High Priest of the Cult of Qelqoth:

AS: Why can’t you drink the water in Mexico?

CQ: Unfortunately, I live in the United Kingdom and as such, I have limited access to Mexican water supplies. However, my friend Pedro often comes back from his holidays with Peyote cacti. To date, I've had no significant problems with either the water absorbed by this plant or the total mind fucks that occur as a result of eating it.

When I woke, my glow sticks were lifeless green shells -mere memories of what they once were; I could never find the Domestic Minx with them. But the The Offended Blogger graciously answered the next question on my list:

AS: Why can't you drink the water in Mexico?

OB: Because if I did, that would mean that I ran off with Jesus -my taco truck guy- down to Mexico again. And my husband already warned me that if that happened one more time he would cut off my allowance!!

The disappearance of the ditch digger in the Atrium produced a dialogue with Diesel:

AS: Someone makes the discovery that semen can be used as an alternative fuel source. Good or bad for the porn industry?

RK: I dunno, but it gives a whole new meaning to the term "gas guzzler."

AS: And what should we do about stupid people?

RK: Huh?

And while checking the Medical Center for signs of Dr. Toboggans, I found a rather enigmatic quotation from the Brent Diggs that gave me pause:

AS: If you could create your own court procedural drama what would it focus on?

BD: In the not-too-distant future, Earth is taken over by alien invaders. These large lobster-like conquerors bring a golden era of peace to ourworld as they ban war, pollution, and the seafood industry. The defunct American court system is overhauled, with legal decisions no longer being settled by lawyers and judges but by ceremonial alien arm-wrestlers. The show: Claw and Order


I'm not sure what this all adds up to.

-but I'm going to find that damned piano someday.


(All unposted interview "Q & A" are published in "comments")


-:¦:-•:*'""* -:¦:- THANK -:¦:- YOU -:¦:- *'""*:•.-:¦:-

:)

Sunday Bloody Sunday

Predator Press

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The two mighty titans circle each other, ever wary.

Cautious.

Graceful even.

Both await the tiniest slip from the other -a telltale twitch of a muscle; a miniscule flaw in the armor. A wrong step. A fatal zig instead of a devastating, punishing zag.

In Blue, the thundering powerhouse, harvester of countless empire-shattering defeats.

In Red, the promising newcomer, possessing brutal, blistering speed and the ruthless zeal of a young passionate heart.

The match had started sportingly enough; introductions were short but potent, and then the lockstep dance of death began. Red began with an explosive, crowd-charging battery of iron-fisted mayhem. But Blue, experienced and wiser, saw his opening and before long Red was pressed against the plastic ropes, hands covering his head from the thunderous blows. Red's face, the wholly unrealistic hard, warrior-like face manufactured by a cash-laden bloodthirsty audience, was crushed under the sheer weight of God's own Doomsday Weapon.

But just when it appeared to be the upset of the century, when all was thought lost, the impossible happened.

Red rushed up with a colossal roar. A battered, defeated, desperate roar. And he connected with Blue's chin with an uppercut that defied mortal explanation. The oxygen was ferociously sucked out of the room, and for one magnificent and terrible moment in time you could hear nothing but the audience wheezing for a breath.

Blue's head launched upwards, neck and vertebrae exposed -an instant kill-shot.

Morbidly, Blue does not fall; spinal column severed, his head now dangled dead over Red forever frozen in that dedicated, maniacal gaze as the soul departed that now vacant shell.

Well, I screamed like a little girl.

When I awoke in the hospital, the doctors tried to explain everything away the way doctors do: I had gone into shock, evidently from witnessing some terribly traumatic event.

Blah blah.

Listen you! You think rap music influences kids violently? Try Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots, a cutesy little toy put out by the evil non-lawsuit-settling empire Mattel.

My team of therapists all think I would "fit in" better if I told this story like I was really freaked out about the safety of the toy. You know, like it was over the little blue guy's head coming off and poking someone in the eye. But that's a good point too! Blue's head shoots off, stabbing little Little Sally right in the eye. Blinded, lil Sally stumbles into traffic, causing a bicyclist to spin out of control and crash into a truckload of chickens and burst into flames as he jackknifes it into a Kraft truck. Pandemonium and chicken parmesan everywhere, a giant, fiery morsel of cholesterol-laden death smashes into a highway support beam under a busload of girl scouts, dolphins and puppies.

My God man! Think of the puppies!

Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots is an abomination to humankind: an elaborate plan for corporate types to hawk plastic crack to our nation's youth while giving odds at off-track online betting facilities. Kids are losing their Crayolas while THE MAN eats veal and charred, blackened husks of girl scouts, dolphins and adolescent Golden Retrievers.

Those ghouls at Mattel dream of nothing except rendering our beautiful blue-green planet into a gray and lifeless shell drifting aimlessly into the godless void ... a soulless abyss where interest rates are somehow relevant and lil Sally cannot possibly get a scholarship anywhere.

Mattel, purveyor of wanton, savage violence, rake in all that Christmas cash while you can.

... because I'm watching you.

Mark A. Rayner Made Me Read Stuff

Predator Press

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This represents the first "meme" I've ever done.

The 123 Meme seemed pretty easy as I happened to be in the middle of The Poor Man's James Bond*.

From page 123, the 5th line is: "Pull the slide to the rear and release it, screw down the Selector Stud until the Secondary Sear is disengaged and the hammer falls, at this point the weapon is on AUTOMATIC."

... you have to read it sideways because of the diagram.

* Spoiler alert: It's a great read, but I'm starting to suspect James Bond neither wrote or appears in it.

So yeah, The Skwib is to blame for the following:


IF YOU ARE READING THIS, YOU ARE MEMED.

OR "MAMED".

WHATEVER.

The rules are as follows:

1) Take a picture of your bare left foot with your cellphone.

2) Send it to the 6th person in your contact list, and then immediately call and ask in a sultry, breathy voice "what they think".

3) Once the Restraining Order is received, add the number of letters in the full name of the judge that signed it and publish the corresponding sentence on your blog with a) the pic, b) the phone number of that #6 litigious prick that totally screwed you by making you a Registered Sex Offender, c) these rules, and d) a link back here.

The first person to successfully fulfill all the above criteria will win the highly-coveted original masterpiece I commissioned to scan in and use as my icon, in the most expensive frame I can find at the Dollar Store.




Good luck to all.

Catch

Predator Press

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One of the most fascinating and perplexing bonds one can ever have is the one with your children.

You love and nurture them, clothe and feed them, teach them everything you know … all in preparation for the day when they will rise up to slay you, and thus rightfully assume the mantle of your vast and mighty empire.

And on this Father's Day of 2008, I was virtually certain my number was up.

I had no regrets ... it is the natural order of things. One day I’ll hear “catch!”, and one of my progeny will hurl a rounded white plastic explosive stuffed with lethal wire and molten rubber for shrapnel –all stitched together with a det cord primer.

It might be a baseball, but I don’t take any chances.

-They are my brood after all.

But LadyTerri and the would-be heirs opted for a rather strange way to commence with the Father’s Day ceremonial rite of passage. None of my entrails were spilled to be danced upon. In fact, to my knowledge it was virtually patricide free.

Since there was no point in pensively waiting for my iPod Touch (as there is no mail delivery on Sunday) we took the really small and loud one to see “Kung Fu Panda” which was unexpectedly great.

Here’s where the teenager blew it: while I was riveted to what will undoubtedly be regarded as the most important motion picture ever made by humankind ever, he could have crept up on me unawares in the darkness and beat me to death with cinderblocks and pointy sticks.

Nothing.

Later that day I found a used copy of The Best of Phillip K. Dick for $8 on Amazon.com and ordered it. But do you think the credit card was coated with deadly neurotoxins?

Zip.

… At this point, I started to doubt my lazy worthless kids were even trying.

The evening culminated into grilled grub and brews while watching a rather exciting Lakers/Celtics Finals game, and the short, loud one has been shooting me evil looks since he can’t play Lego Star Wars while the game is on.

Here we go, I figured. He'll climb up on a small stack of phone books behind the recliner, wrap the controller cable around my neck and swing straight into Destiny ...

... But to my shock and disappointment he started coloring quietly at the kitchen table.

I even tried to make it easy for them by conspicuously removing my bulletproof vest numerous times.

Still the night wore on without a single shot fired.

I cannot fault them, I decide. Perhaps they are simply not yet ready to seize the reins of my sprawling rule. They require more preparation, and it is my sacred duty to provide that until they are.

It was at that exact moment that I was brought a huge bowl of one of my favorite foods: Jalapeno poppers.

So this is the plan, I thought. Slowly poisoning me with a huge heaping deep-fried pile of cholesterol-laden death so my little black heart grinds to a standstill!

Wolfing them down hungrily, I eye them with glowing pride as a single tear rolls down my cheek.

They grow up so fast.

[*sniff*]

Alltop Badge Contest

Predator Press

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After tooling around all day in the Predator Press corporate jet, I could tell there was something on Guy Kawasaki's mind ... but it wasn't until we touched down on a remote and dusty road in South Africa when he finally breached the subject.

"See?" I observed. "I told you they would have a Starbucks."

"LOBO," says Guy. "You should totally enter my Alltop Badge Contest. You could win an iPod Touch."

"But Guy," I says. "The last thing in the world I need is another device I couldn't possibly comprehend. Besides, all the other bloggers would just give up if they find out I'm entering. And then we both gotta field those boo-hoo emails, 'LOBO is too good,' and 'Phooey! No fair'. It's just depressing."

"Be careful," says guy. "Don't step on that pile of poisonous asps."

"Thanks!" I says. "Man I woulda walked right into that."

Guy signals the kid in the green apron, and he approaches the counter.

"I would like a Double Grande Mocha-Mocha-"

[I don't really know how to spell it, but Guy goes into a series of words that sound suspiciously like dolphin squeaks and clicks]

"Make that two," I says.

"Emails, shmemails," counters Guy. "Alltop is the 'Best of the Best'. I expect nothing more than the highest caliber of competition."

"Can I rip off one of Don Lewis' images?"

"Knock yourself out."

Hmmmmm ...

The Ark of the Convenient

Predator Press

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"LOBO," says God.

"What?"

"Have you had enough punishment yet?"

"Excuse me?"

"The flooding."

"You mean the flooding in Iowa? I don't live there."

"Well where do you live?"

"Illinois."

[muffled Holy Whispering]

"Which part?" God asks.

"Pianosa. Why?"

"Where the hell is Pianosa?"

"Chicago could throw rocks at us."

"So if, say, a natural disaster hit Chicago, odds are it would take you out too?"

"Probably."

"About how far east would that be from Grand Rapids?"

"I dunno," I shrug. "200 miles maybe."

"Ever built a boat before?"

"Nope. Why?"

[muffled Holy Giggling]

"Oh, uh, just checking."


***



LadyTerri was surprisingly incredulous.

"So God told you to build an ark?"

"No,” I says, carefully putting up my tools. “God specifically did not tell me to build an ark. But that's God's M.O.; the second he doesn't tell you to build an ark, the next thing you know you're a barnacle on Davy Jones’ butt.”

“Why would God flood the Earth again now?”

“I’m guessing maybe American Idol.”

“Where is it?”

“It’s right here,” I says. “Behold!”

I pull the sheets clear.

“I call her the Royal Magellan.”

“Honey,” says LadyTerri. “I don’t think that’s going to save us from a Biblical flood.”

“What do you mean?” I scowl. “I mean sure it might be off by a cubit or two. But there’s plenty of room for you, me and the cat.”

“What about the kids?”

“Why do you think I spent so much money on those swimming lessons?”

Predator Press Interviews: Ethan

Predator Press

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"Hey Ethan, do you want to be interviewed on Predator Press?"

"Are you still jealous that Don Lewis got interviewed on Angry Seafood?"

"I am definitely not jealous," I point out. "I'm merely suffering from the perception that attention or appreciation I deserve has been diverted to someone else."

"Like Don Lewis."

"Why would I care if Don Lewis got interviewed? Don Lewis is a great blogger."

"Then why is your eye twitching?"

"It's not twitching. It's exercising. Look, we do lots of interviews. It's a perfectly viable medium for getting to know interesting people and celebrities. And I'll bet all Predator Press readers want to know more about the 'real' Ethan. Do want to be interviewed or not?"

"Well okay. Fire away."

"Cool," I says, sitting across from him with my clipboard. "The first question is 'How long have you known LOBO?'"

"Wait a minute," he says. "Are all these questions about you?"

"Of course not."

He snatches the clipboard from my grasp.

"Don't read those!" I protest. "It will ruin the spontaneity and candid nature of the entire piece!"

"Uh huh," he says reading down the list. "'Is LOBO really as handsome as is reputed?'"

"The people have a right to know."

"'Describe how I landed the brilliant employee in the world.'"

"I love that story."

"'How do you keep yourselves 'down-to-Earth' when constantly surrounded by his outrageous successes?'"

"Okay, I admit that on some of these I'm curious myself."

"'What would you consider to be LOBO's most outrageously successful quality? His' -oh my god- 'well-muscled physique or his radiant brainiosity?'"

"We have to hurry up," I insist. "I need to post this and quickly suit up for the Lakers game. And they have to configure all the CGI equipment so Kobe Bryant's head is superimposed over mine."

"What's the picture of the firemen for?"

"That's for casting LOBO: The Motion Picture; it's kind of a cinematic 'visual aid' of me being portrayed by two gifted actors, swimming in gritty heroism. Now can we please get this over with? If I'm late, we'll lose the game. And they won't let me back in the NFL because I throw the football too hard."

"Using your 'radiant braniosity', guess what I'm going to do with this clipboard."

"Should I go ahead and call the ambulance now?"