Predator Press
[LOBO]
The only problem I have with an “official” holiday is that everyone else is on one too.
When I take a sick day for instance, the world carries on as normal: television is on regular scheduling, stores are open, et cetera. But on an “official” holiday such as Independence Day, well, virtually anything I might have done is on holiday as well.
-And if you lazy bastards don't get back to work
pronto, my head is going to explode.
“Honey,” says Terri, knocking softly at the door.
Sitting in a bath of deep bubbles, my copy of
The Best of Philip K. Dick tented on my forehead, I’m pondering the story I just finished darkly. Dick, a favorite author, took an unexpected detour in his story
Faith of our Fathers; for this he seemed to channel
another favorite author of mine, H. P. Lovecraft. And I was wholly unprepared for the exceptionally-
Another knock. Louder.
-bleak moral. But a
lot of PKD’s stuff is edgy, provocative and foreboding: he wrote
Minority Report, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, and
We Can Remember it for You Wholesale after all (although Hollywood would take liberties with them; most people know the last two as
Blade Runner and
Total Recall respectively.)
Terri tries the locked door. “Honey are you okay?”
PKD’s impact on Hollywood doesn’t rest there, either. I could make a case that the whole
Terminator series is a spinoff of his short
Second Variety-
Another knock.
“Yeah,” I says reluctantly.
“Honey I need a favor,” says Terri through the door. “Will you watch Jessica while I give Maude a ride to get some formula?”
Scowling, I remove the paperback from my head and set it on the edge of the tub. “I‘m very busy,” I reply.
“You won‘t have to do anything,” says another voice. Male.
The Butterbean kid.
-To get you up to speed, Maude is Butterbean’s mom, and Jessica is Maude’s newborn baby girl.
I grab a towel. "I don’t do diapers ‘an crap. It’s a strict policy I learned from Hillary Clinton.
'No Child’s Behind Left'"
“That’s
'No Child Left Behind,'“ Terri corrects.
“Even better,” I agree.
The rather debilitating sulk that
Faith of our Fathers inspired didn’t drag me down alone.
Neverlution, a heady and potent stand up routine by one of my favorite stand-up comics Christopher Titus debuted yesterday, and it seemed to round up all my demons into a nice little package: he covered everything from major depression -one of my many diagnoses- to the state of our mighty-yet-currently staggering beloved nation. Did we lose our Mandate of Heaven? Or was it always myth, like Bigfoot and the female orgasm?
I think I tried to be depressed for the country instead somehow, and it just made things worse.
-Nothing to buoy to, I suppose.
“We’ll only be ten minutes or so,” Terri adds. “I just want an adult here. I couldn’t find one, but you’re the next best thing.”
Ha ha.
“I’ll take care of everything,” Butterbean repeats.
Still toweling off, I contemplate this soberly. “You’ll take care of everything, eh?”
“Yeah,” he replies with the surfeit of confidence only found in adolescents.
“You'll have to prove your competence then," I says through the still-closed door bathroom door. "You can have any four guests for dinner. Who do you invite?”
Butterbean pauses behind the door. "Uh-"
"Quickly!" I demand.
Then suddenly he blurts, “Ben Franklin, Leonardo da Vinci, Thomas Edison, and ... Socrates.”
“Wrong, wrong, wrong and
wrong,” I says, pulling on my boxers. “Jesus who could eat with all those dead people? The place would stink to high heaven. The correct answer is Adam Carolla, Drew Pinsky, David Allen Grier, and Justin Bieber.”
Duh, I thought, drying my hair some more in the mirror.
For the first time in my life I’m forced to admit I look like shit; I don’t think I’ve never been in this much cumulative physical and psychological disrepair. Perhaps worse, even the frail forty-minute sleep increments I manage -among the most painful experiences of all- are further complicated by a nasty bout of hay fever.
Still, the back surgery went really well and physical therapy starts tomorrow. The broken wrist is marginally usable already. The
ankle, however, complicated by two breaks, not so much -the jury is still out on a possible additional surgery.
I do intend to blog all
this here soon. Probably at the end of this month, as it will coincide with an important announcement.
But I need a nice tall pale beer first. And maybe a plate of pork chops.
-Or a good steak.
“So will you do it?” asks Terri.
In the mirror, checking for acne, I spot a small red spot on my cheekbone. I zero in. I
think it’s acne.
“Do what?”
Holy crap … I hope it’s not melanoma.
Note: That mirror pic is from a great site I tripped on called Funny World, and the gallery is here.
-But shh! Don‘t tell them I stole it!
Yes, it’s almost Fantasy Football time again. Want to sign up for my amateur league? Send an email to “carpenoctum at hotmail dot com." But act quickly -it is first come, first served, and almost half the spots are already taken.
With Shark Boxing still tied up in pre-production due to a quagmire of insurance hassles, I generally spend my weekends coaching a Pop Warner pee-wee football team called the Starfishes -a spirited and rugged little squad of ‘can do’ types, all afflicted with advanced stages of leprosy.
