Predator Press
[LOBO]
I’m just going to say it outright: I’ve got writer’s block.
I’m not sweating it. It has happened before. I just need to “get typing.”
This post isn’t particularly funny … it’s just the first thing I’ve felt vaguely impelled to write.
A few years ago I was on a team of guys competing in a demolition derby.
-I don’t blame you for the yeah right: I’ll be the first to tell you I’m a tech guy and not a “mech” guy. I can’t change the oil on my car because I think $25 is worth the hassle. And carpentry? Oh holy shit I would sooner burn the place down and collect the insurance.
-But demolition derby was something I always wanted to do I guess. And I want to drive a DD car myself one day: this would be how you start, right? Besides, wouldn’t volunteering for a team provide some great writing fodder?
This "team" needed a volunteer because they had two drivers, and hence two cars. I’m sure you’ve seen stuff one television with guys in cargo shorts and flip flops designing stuff in AutoCAD, but this was an experienced bunch of rednecks with a well-tooled barn, someone on an Acetylene torch 24/7, a seemingly endless supply of rich racist euphamisms, oil-saturated skin and a very specific agenda:
The Derby.
So before I run the risk of making this story more about other people than myself, I’ll regale you with tales of how I hadda get every sliver of windshield glass out of the interior and stuff.
Still, I should back up for a second and explain some things.
You had to, in the regulations of this particular race, “gut” a car and strip it to sheer functional essentials: the gas tank had to be 5 gallons or less. A “protection cage” required installation in each car.
-But there is specific emphasis on glass. Glass must be completely removed and replaced by a ‘tic-tac-toe’ pattern of chains welded to various body components. For lack of better technology, this requires shattering all windows inwardly, and scooping, sweeping, DustBustering –whatever it takes.
Because of this, I was present then the vehicle hoods got “trimmed.” At this phase, they cut holes in the hoods and trunks and doors to chain them closed as per the afore mentioned regulations.
-I got a little oval of steel from both cars, and they sit on my desk -slightly two o’clock fro my line of vision as I write this. I consider them weird luck.
So anyway, I got photographs of the various processes and some great shots of the “crew.” I had notes and details. I had a pretty decent writing project going. And when the deadline for the cars to be inspected for the race loomed, we all –some six vehicles including the truck our two cars were on- simultaneously tore off from the remote farm in a swirling cyclone of flying dust and highly-charged howled obscenities.
-My car, however, the infamous Chick Magnet, broke down at the farm's mailbox and I was stranded for the next 13 hours. The cellphone containing all the precious teambuilding photography was hurled in frustration due to no signal at the fender of the Chick Magnet by a man -who will not be named- in that desolate 20-X-20 mile radius containing only myself.
And those demolition derby pricks won.
Saturday
Wednesday
Presurrection
Predator Press
[LOBO]
I couldn't pinpoint when it happened, but let's just say the word “retard” has all but vanished from my vocabulary in a decade or so of political correctness.
But every teenager I’ve talked to in the last few months uses the abbreviation ”tard” instead.
Example: ”Dude, that guy is such a 'tard!"
I should be more impressed with their commanding economy over prefixes such as “re”: this subtle modification has masterfully reintroduced the sorely-missed word to our lexicon almost without prejudice.
-But they cancel it out almost entirely with that stubborn habit of adding the suffix “palooza” to everything.
Tuesday
Dear Kellogg’s
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Okay, I’ve had it.
I’ve heard enough Michael Phelps crap.
-The only reason I haven’t weighed in sooner is because I haven’t heard an argument better than "WTF!?!"
Doesn’t Kellogg’s shove a pricey gulletfull of sugar down every single last child in this nation every day? And besides the kids ‘an the “stoners,” who is dumb enough to be eating that diabetic seizure-inducing sugar-coated packing foam in the first place?
A winning Olympic athlete did?
Really?
Monday
Somnium
Predator Press
[LOBO]
One day –for whatever reason- the last letter of this blog will be typed.
Over time, many of the numerous blogs that it links to will fail as well. And here -unmonitored- those fossilized links will inevitably break one by one.
And having ground to a standstill, required upgrades will be missed and new guidelines will be unheeded: long forgotten bills and subscriptions will go unpaid, and ultimately Predator Press will stutter on in a distorted and sleepily hobbled feed, winding out tiredly into an uncaring oblivion.
-Perhaps before then, one of the following people (who all have something in common) will “google” themselves and realize that I have missed them terribly:
Grant Uyeshiro
Aaron Leong
Kimo Albarado
Kevin and Lynnette Almeida
Ken Scroggins
Nelson Aoyama
carpenoctum-at-hotmail.com
Sunday
The Return of the Fellowship of the Ring-Wearing Lord of the Two Towers' King
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The taxi driver -clearly a Visigoth of the proud Tervingi division- smiled widely into the rearview mirror.
“Buenos dias!” he says enthusiastically.
“Look buddy,” I says watching behind to see if anyone is following us. “I don’t speak Visigoth. And this is Los Angeles dammit. If you’re going to do business here, you’re gonna have to pick up the local language pronto.”
“English,” he says. “I know some. Where you need to go?”
“Into history, my friend. I want you to take me to see The Gooch.”
He screeches to such an abrupt halt, my face smashes into the front seat cushion.
“Jesus Christ!” I complain.
“Get out!” he demands. “I will not take another man to that evil place.”
I’m getting tired of repeating myself. “Look. I need to slay The Gooch so I can get a book deal.”
“Well I have a book deal,” the driver points out.
“You do not,” I reply furiously.
“I do so,” he says, showing me the cover of a paperback on his dashboard.His picture is on it.
“Romantic comedy,” he explains. “It was on the bestseller list for thirteen weeks.”
“Bragger.”
“But I will not take you to The Gooch.” He turns around to face me, throwing his elbow behind his seat. “Many have gone, and few return. And the few that do return only tear out their own eyes screaming in the deepest sanitariums on Earth. Besides it’s right there.”
He points to a dark castle enshrouded in fierce clouds at the top of a jagged mountain at the end of the block.
I whistle.
“That’ll be twelve dollars,” he says.
“You only took me eight feet!”
Thursday
Green
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“You’re kidding,” I says.
“Nope,” says the Butterbean kid. “All dead.”
“The Gooch killed all 2457 Gary Coleman clones?”
“It’s right here on CNN.” He flips through some screens. “Oh man some of these pictures are pretty horrifying.”
“It’s settled then,” I says. “The Gooch must die.”
“Is this another weird attempt at getting a book deal?”
“It’s the natural order!” I insist. “You have a great blog, you kill The Gooch, pow, book deal. That’ll teach that Starcasm to stop stealing my ideas.”
Butterbean shrugs. “I have a book deal.”“You’re a liar,” I says.
“Nope,” the Butterbean kid says. “I got a C minus for my interviews of you, but Random House heard about ‘em somehow and offered me $100,000 for The Unofficial Biography of LOBO.”
“Did you get exclusive rights in case there’s a motion picture?”
“Check.”
“You bastard!”
“Terri’s home,” he points to the window.
“Look,” I says. “There’s no need to upset Terri with the news that I’m going to attempt to kill The Gooch.”
“Mum’s the word,” says Butterbean.
“And I know,” I continue, “that we haven’t known each other that long. But in this small span of time I feel that we've grown to be pretty close friends.”
Terri is working the front door lock with her keys.
“This is why I’ve decided I want you to have these,” I say ceremoniously.
“Wow!” says Butterbean. “The protective goggles you wear to eat M&Ms?”“Take good care of ‘em kid,” I says. “There’s a good chance I won’t be needing them anymore.”
“But don’t you want to give these to your own kids?”
“Nah. I want ‘em to go to somebody I actually like.”
Terri throws open the front door.
“Honey,” she cries breathlessly, tossing her keys on the table. “I have the best news. I got a book deal!”
Wednesday
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