maybe it was the johnny walker, maybe it was the homemade croûtons. hell, maybe it was the white rabbit ® candy (in coffee and regular. ask alice) but somehow i found myself blanked eyed on the couch in a catatonic stupor. unable to move, The Boy snoring in my ear and the weight of 1,000 zombie movies against my eyelids…..uh, ok two. the weight of two zombie movies in my eyelids. but television-ally, we were gliding through neutral territory there for a while: ER. sure, i watch a great deal of it turtle-like, with my neck permanently implanted deep into my chest cavity. but late night emergency room drama-trauma is nothing i ain’t used to. but suddenly, between the anaphylactic shock and the Parkinson’s, we unknowingly slipped into the channel seven late night movie.

suddenly, there before my eyes, in a hale of electric slide guitar and harmonica, there it was like a denim stain: THE BILLY RAY SIRIUS MOVIE! where daytime soap actors go to die. where mullets go to soar.

not to speak ill of the Malibu, because it would be un-wise at any juncture to speak ill of the crossbones of the crosswalk him/her/itself, but she’s the kinda of car you pass and think “maybe i should leave those people some duct tape.” or “now when did i get my last tetanus shot.” or “SWEET MERCIFUL JESUS, WHAT IS THAT THING!”
when you see this car, theft is not exactly the first thing that comes to mind. one’s pillaging-minded thoughts could more accurately be described as: “anything i could conceivably steal from people who own a sprawling, steaming wreak like this beast, i couldn’t even unload at a Alabama flea market if you threw in a bag of boiled peanuts.” (fun fact: people eat them, you know? boiled peanuts. kooky.)
so, it was kinda funny that time i went out to find that someone broke in and cut the fucking twist tie that held the “glove box” closed (see, that’s not just in quotations because we don’t literally keep gloves in it. read on!) only to discover that there was no “box”, the flap was just concealing a gaping, rusty hole into the floor board.
and it was a little less funny when someone stole the cat-pissed coat in the back seat. funny because, hey — someone stole my cat pissed jacket, but sort of lame ’cause i really liked that jacket.
but it was hands down the least funny when i went outside to go to work and there were my frayed red and black battery connections swaying gently in the afternoon breeze. yes, ladies and gentleman: crackheads stole my battery. so i’m out $70 bucks, plus what ever it will cost to repair the ulcer that waiting for the taxi i have to take instead is giving me, and jolly saint-crackhead had to lug that 30 lb. brick down the street and is probably going to get a two dollars and a Clark bar for all their efforts. (and that’s only if they go to the really nice auto shop that gives out candy bar with every stolen property purchase.)

three samosas deep and at least as many margaritas, here on the cusp of the deepest dark of the evening and before the dreadfully recurrent tomorrow, (ie: extra, extra etcetera etcetera ad infinitum, Nomeni Patri Et Fili Spiritus Sancti) climbs your simi-faithful narrator, well traveled but not road weary. and almost keeping a respectable schedule these days….in most respects.
three thousand years ago i promised you pictures — needy horde that you are — and has your little erratum ever let you down…..don’t answer that. (don’t you know a rhetorical question when you hear one?) (more…)