Zombie? Or Not A Zombie?

The Best Thing I Said Today.

"What? Your's looks like RuPaul?"

Worst Album Cover Ever?

A Man Of Letters.

Aaaaannndddd Blank.

Zombie Or Not A Zombie?

Worst Album Cover Ever?

What's the Worst That Could Happen?

Sit Down And Don't Shut Up.

The Best Thing I Said Today.

"Whatami, Tina Yothers?"

Come ON!

Miss You.

It's Not A Spoon.

Nailed It.

Empty Mitts.

The Best Thing I Said Today.*

"I was raised to be a Sandy... but I'm a Rizzo."

*Special guest star edition!

No. No Better Place.

Crash.

One was a grimace of gnarled, stained metal.

Nothing could have survived.

Then a few rows of the less damaged, most with perfect, eight-inch holes in the windshields.  Holes wide enough to fit a cantaloupe through.

Rain trickled down my nose; dripped down to my lips.  I could taste hair gel and salt in the drops.  I couldn’t hear anything but the pitter-patter of rain splashing softly in rusty puddles.

I got my car back, eventually.

I spent six months visiting doctors… another seventeen alone.

She called me once, over the summer.

Her voice purred on my machine, whispered over and over:

“Te amo… te amo… te amo….”

But I know what that’s all about.

Let Love Rule.

The Best Thing I Said Today.

"Seriously, how bad would it be if I ate this? Like Trump bad? Or 'Showgirls' bad?"

What's The Worst That Could Happen?

Time Flies When You're Bustin' Ghosts.

WTCaesar?

Okay, look: I've loved Coen brothers movies since they did tracking shots over passed-out bar patrons... and I love a weird, unexpected movie as much as the next guy... but seriously, WTF Joel & Ethan? I'm confused and scared... and I have a feeling that in ten years or so I'll be watching "Hail, Caesar" as often as I watch "Glengarry Glen Ross." Which is to say, constantly. Keep closing, Coens... keeeeeep closing.

History Retreating.

At last... first.

Worst Album Cover Ever?

Only The Backs Remain.

Sharc...

I drove for hours and hours.  I decided I’d never tell a living soul what happened, not even my best friend.  I’d never tell anyone.

Then, the car crash.

A cop picked me up at a little diner.

I called him from a payphone outside the gas station, then I had called my sister and left her a message.

In the diner, all those stupid people looking at me, wondering if I was a criminal.

In the cop’s car, there were no door handles in the back. 

The cop told me stories as he drove; told me I was lucky to be alive.

And I was.

At the police station, standing in line for hours… cold coffee in a styrofoam cup; the dull thud of waiting.

The car graveyard.  Rows and rows of twisted and mangled machines lined-up in order of severities.

One had been torn inside-out.

One looked like it had been scooped-up with a giant spatula.

One was crushed and bent up to the sky like a sculpture.

Thanks To You, We Could Be.

Rest in well-earned peace, Muhammad Ali.

Ahsrc...

She got on the phone and started talking to somebody in Spanish.  I could make out the pitch and inflections of the voice on the other end.  It was a man’s voice, also Spanish.  Not her brother, either. 

She was doing a good job;  she chose words which weren’t obvious.  But Spanish is like French, you know.  Even big words, carefully chosen, sound the same.

I’m not that dumb, you know.  I’m just a slab of meat, sitting on the edge of a bed with a stone face.

She hung-up the phone.

“Sorry, that was a friend. I had to call him.

“He’s upset.

“You understand.”

“Sure I do… let’s go to sleep, I’m tired.”

I was gone before she was awake.

I put the room charges on my Visa; the call had been local.

I got in my car, turned on the heater, and chugged coffee.  I beat the morning traffic by over an hour. 

I Would Never Have Known.