BLADE RUNNER STILL WORKS

I called in sick this week and read 18 vintage P.K.D. novels. It was a maniacal thing. Happens to me once a year. Frantic need to search through "the texts" for answers. I paused only to order pizza and change my clothes once or twice (settled on the trusty red silk kimono - truly the most relaxing thing for a fat man). Didn't even watch My Name is Earl, or Reno 911. I was afraid that their influence might dilute the serious philosophical-sci-fi-P.K.D. vibe I was cultivating. 

It was time well spent, I think. It helped remind me that I'm not the only one out there suspicious of reality. It hits me at odd times, like when I'm in one of those highway rest stops. You know, the ones they have along I90. They're decorated in a faux Adirondack Lodge motif, only if you look closely enough, 24 inch tubular ducts pipe chilled air that reverberates with muzak or easy listening favorites. At 2 a.m. you might be one of a handful of weary travellers, eating 4-hour old hepatitis burgers from Roy Rogers (does this franchise exist outside of highway rest stops?), and feeling completely alienated from the rest of the world (at 2 a.m. on the highway does the rest of the world even exist anyway?).  Anyway, back to "the texts." 

Here's a mere sampling of what I read: The Man in the High Castle, UBIK, The Divine Invasion, VALIS, Radio Free Albemuth, Flow My Tears the Policeman Said, The Transmigration of Timothy Archer, Confessions of a Crap Artist, Galactic Pot Healer, and Time Out of Joint. And, of course, Do Android Dream of Electric Sheep (otherwise known as Blade Runner). Even though I've read it and seen the movie several times, I'm still blown away by Electric Sheep. Quite different from the movie. Rick Decker, the bounty hunter, gets into this argument with his wife because she sets her Penfield Mood Machine for a 6 hour self-hating depression. He can't understand why you'd program yourself for a mood that sucks. It defeats the whole purpose of having a mood machine, he says. Well maybe I'm supposed to feel that way, she says. So it goes, Mr. Kurt says. And there's more good stuff! Like what J.R. Isadore, the "special" says about kipple (P.K.D. lingo for junk): it reproduces itself whenever no one is around. That's how come there's always more and more kipple. He lives in an abandoned apartment building and is terrified to go in the empty apartments because the kipple might overtake him.  

Anyway, after my "vacation," I do feel better. I think I am ready to return to reality, whether it's actually real or not. Maybe it doesn't matter? Later, 

Frank

Unknown Novel

Found this in the deep space of the interwebs. Check it: 

Stanley and Joe sped through the night in a stolen Chevy van blitzed on Xanax and cheap wine. It was a good night, filled with potential, and they talked excitedly about adventure, major league baseball playoffs, and the divine convergence of beauty in the universe. As usual, Joe did most of the talking; Stanley listened quietly, nodding his head occasionally. He was happy to be along for the ride.  

The Bonds of Stupidity

You ever screw up so big that you can never outrun it? Not even if you lived to be 113 years-old?Like, there would be only one other person alive who remembered the embarrassing event, but that would be enough. The guy would be sitting in the lounge of the nursing home, telling all the other old timers about it. Passing it down to the younger ones so it will never be forgotten. Well, here it is: 

It was my sister's wedding (last weekend). She married this Hassidic guy, Meir, only his real name is Mark. This is no big deal because my sister, Avivit, is really named Gloria. As you might guess, she's changed. So they had this beautiful traditional wedding, and everything was great. There was the best Jewish food in the world: blintzes, and pickles, and matzot-ball soup, and noodle coogle. And my father's side of the family cooked Portuguese: arroz demarisco, chouricos, and cozido a portuguesa. They had the usual stuff too: cheesecakes, strawberries, and the ubiquitous chocolate fountain. 

So right in the middle of all the toasts, I settled in with a cup of strong coffee and a nice piece of yellow cheesecake. It was gorgeous, this cheesecake. The texture was light and creamy, and it looked like there was no crust. And I wondered how in the hell they made it without any crust? Must have been some insane genius of a pastry chef. I decided to meet him after the wedding and shake his hand. Maybe buy him a beer. 

I put a giant forkful in my mouth just as my father was giving his toast. Now, you've got to know something about my father. He never cries. He's one of those old fashioned tough guys, like Sinatra or Bogart, only Portuguese. But sure enough, there he was at the podium, talking about Gloria, I mean Avivit, with real tears in his eyes. It was beautiful the things he was saying. My little girl...may she be as happy as she's made me, etc. You could tell everyone at the wedding was getting choked up too. And that's when it hit me, what had happened. What was happening. I stood up abruptly, spilling my wine and water glass everywhere. I clutched my throat in horror. I screamed! Yes, without thinking, in a panic-reflex of stupidity and poor taste, I shouted above my weeping 67 year-old father who was giving his only daughter away to some nutjob black-hat who sold junk bonds and collected toy railroad trains. This is what I said: 

"It's FUCKING BUTTER! This isn't cheesecake. It's FUCKING BUTTER!"

There. I'm not proud of it. Actually, I'm quite embarrassed. I mean there I stood in the center of everyone's attention, with a giant lump of butter in my mouth and my sister, Gloria, I mean Avivit, trying to melt my face off with her laser eyes. And my father, well... let's just say I've got some making up to do.        

 

THE ONION DEFENSE

I just visited a friend in Buffalo. He lives in a terrible neighborhood, which I understand isn't so hard to arrange in that rusting city. Anyway, I was cooking a big dinner (jambalaya) and needed an onion. This sorry bastard (my friend) didn't have a single onion in his house! Can you believe it? I couldn't either. So I walked a couple of blocks to this really great old Italian market called Guercio's, on Grant Street. I bought one large Vidalia, wrapped in a plastic grocery bag. It was the size of a grapefruit, and hard as a baseball; I marveled at it's superiority.

In the street, from a tall skinny man who was obviously insane, on crack, and in desperate need of a dentist: "Hey, motherfucker!" 

A voice called out. To me? I didn't really know anybody on the West Side, other than my onionless friend. But my attention was definitely being solicited.  

"Yeah, you. I'm talking to you, bitch."

What do you do in a situation like this? I'm a relatively nonviolent person. It took me seven years to earn a Bachelor's degree, and not one class ever covered what to do when threatened by a street tough. My mind scanned all the cool movies I'd ever seen. But they involved actual punching, karate moves, and a substantial loss of blood. Not that I'm incapable of fighting. Not at all! I actually kicked Ronny Dermot's ass in the 3rd grade. You should have seen it! But on this day, I couldn't fight because I really wanted to get home and cook that jambalaya. 

Walking away, I said over my shoulder, "I have to go now. I defrosted some giant prawns, and I don't want them to spoil." 

He quickened his pace. Said, "What? What did you say? You got some money for me, bitch?"

So I did the only thing that made sense at the time. I faced the guy and planted my feet firmly. I twisted the bag around the onion so it looked kind of like one of those prehistoric weapons - I think it's called a bola - only it had one onion tethered to the end of a plastic bag instead of 3 stones connected by rawhide thongs. Then I started swinging it in a giant arc. I think I even managed a menacing smile, as if to say, bring it on you deranged-crack-addled-person-with-poor-dental-hygiene. Bring it on. 

Incredibly, he stopped dead in his tracks and began to twitch and jitter. He was evidently making a decision. Do I stab the fat man with the onion, or go find an easier target? But then it looked like his thoughts got confused. Find fat onions in easier places? What? Not making sense fat onions."  

"Shit!" He cursed to the street. "Crazy motherfucker. I'd mess you up if you wasn't so damn crazy."

And with this pronouncement, he walked away. And so that's the story of how that one single Vidalia onion served me in battle and then in the kitchen. No bullshit!   

 

BEING FAT WITH IMPUNITY

Some tips for you brave fat ones living in the harsh world of thin beauties: 

1. Stare back. Dare them to judge you. Remember that your fat is just as good as anyone else's. If you're at a restaurant, lean over and ask, "are you going to eat your fat?"

2. Come up with your own soundtrack. Walk through the hip shopping district playing something kick-ass like Heaven 90210 by Urge Overkill (my current favorite song) or virtually anything by The White Stripes. If you've got a good soundtrack, who gives a shit if you're fat? All people will see is that you've got it going on. Unfortunately, I don't have an Ipod, so I just sing. 

3. Dress to eat.  Think loose fitting and stylish. You say it can't be done? Check me out sometime then. I prefer baggy trousers of natural fibers. If you are lucky enough to find pants with a built-in belt, buy several pairs. 

IDIOTS FOR DUMMIES

You know those stupid books like Juggling for Idiots, or Windows for Dummies? There's about a million of them and, although they pretty much suck, I want in on the action. I figured that a nice 10k advance would help me buy that new Vespa Granturismo 200 and get most of the way to Vegas (the great Cross-America scooter adventure). 

But I want to write about stuff that people really need to know. Useful things. Like how to make a really good zabaglione. How fat is too fat? Or what to do when you're on a date and you've forgotten your wallet! Who cares about juggling and the internet, right? So here's my idea: Idiots for Dummies. A brief sample of the contents (feel free to write in any you can think of - I'll post the best ones later in the week): 

IDIOTS FOR DUMMIES

1. Fashion: Stretch pants, dickies, and mullets for the rest of us. 

2. Sex: Can you really catch something from yourself? All about Solitary Social Diseases     

     (SSDs). 

3.  Superstition: The new science. Even crazier than Scientology. 

4.  Reading: Not all it's cracked up to be. Are adult picture books the next big thing? 

5.  Scratch tickets, coffee, and nicotine. Oh my! A look at what really makes the world run. 

6.   Programming your VCR: You can master the technology in 2.6 hours. 

7.  Ecological street drugs: an abuser's guide to saving the environment. 

Urge Overkill

Check out Heaven 90210, by Urge Overkill. They rock. Plus they're very stylish.

"When she comes for me

     and takes my hand

     and pain is all I know.

  

     She gives me heavenly thrills

     90210"