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 ham
burgers 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 ham
burgers 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.
I think I speak for the entire world when I am the first to tell you the following:
