THE MAN, THE LEGEND, THE DESSERT TOPPING.
I've been a B.C. fan forever, but that relationship was cemented when I wrote Johnny Hart a fan letter and he sent me a Sunday strip.
For starters I only got up around ten o’clock. Sleep eluded me last night and my eyes didn’t close until Valarie got up this morning at seven. The meds that I’m currently on serve to exasperate my occasional twitchy leg syndrome. Val says that now my leg beats regularly like a big fleshy metronome.
While I was up last night I did play a little Mario Kart on the Wii and I bowled for around an hour—long enough to reach Pro level. My reward was a shiny new bowling ball that has stars and sparkles on it. It must have been Irwin Allen night last night because I watched a good chunk of both Earthquake and The Poseidon Adventure. Say what you want about Poseidon Adventure—it’s 35 years old and most of the effects are as creaky as the lead actors, but in ten minutes you get more characterization and gravitas than in all two hours of the remake, Poseidon. In the same vein, I make no excuses for Earthquake. I could live to be a happy old Fred if I never see it again. When I was watching I always root for the earthquake to kill them all.
So, back to this morning. I got up, cleaned the remnants of the Sandman’s from my bleary eyes, and fell to the floor and did some cat wrestling. I always beat them and then they go off to lick themselves and sulk. They all did this except for Oliver, a big sausage of a cat, who automatically rolls over on his back whenever anyone is within fifty feet of him so he can get a belly scratch. He’s a sausage.
After playing with the cats I went and cleaned the litter boxes out. One of our cats, Ozzy, has the whole litter box concept backward. When he perches on the edge of one of the two boxes we have he always does it in the wrong direction and he poops on the floor. Every single day. Thankfully, for some reason when he empties his bladder he does it into the litter.
After scooping the poop and washing my hands I poured myself a healthy bowl of Apple Jacks. I turned the television on and watched the second half of Speed Racer while I ate. This movie bugged the crap out of me when I saw it in the theater and the first couple of times I caught chunks of it on cable. But I think I finally get it. I was reminded of George Lucas’ response to people who thought the first three movies weren’t as good as the original second trilogy. To paraphrase him, in essence he said “Hey, these are my movies. I hope you like them, but if you don’t that’s too bad—go make your own!” The way I see it, Los Bros Wachowski got the chance to make the Speed Racer movie they saw in their heads, and we can like it or not. Long ago I wrote some issues of the Speed Racer and Racer X comics and I screwed around with some established concepts just because I wanted to, because that’s what was in my head. I’m sure some people hated my take, but I know some folks liked it very much.
After eating I gathered up the laundry and started a load in the washer and dryer. Then I played with the cats some more.
I finally set foot in the office, chased our youngest cat Rocket out of my chair and fired up the computer. After checking email I did some research for a project I’m writing for Liquid Development.
Then I rearranged my Mighty Muggs figures. Somehow Mace Windu and Darth Maul had gotten mixed in with the Marvel characters. What goes on in here during the night. The telephone has been ringing off the hook. It’s mostly sales people (I have to figure out how to get on the DO NOT CALL registry. We were on it at the old house and since we moved it’s been hell on wheels. The other calls have been about my out standing hospital bills from my two stays. I keep telling them to continue adding on the interest and I’ll pay it when I can pay it. (You’d think they’d be happy with the hundreds of thousands of dollars the insurance company has given them so far)
For some reason I find myself really bugged by hardcover books that are missing their dust jackets.
Last night Valarie finished the latest Lee Child novel, which I had read last week, and I noticed she put it on the shelf minus the dust jacket. I was silently appalled. I would have said something to her but with Val you have to choose your battles very wisely.
I found the cover this morning and everything is as it should be once more. I don’t have any clue why the lack of a dust jacket bugs me. I think it might have to do with the fact that I myself take the jacket off when I start reading a new book. I always wind up getting the book cover full of fingerprints from the natural oil that we all exude. The dust jacket hides these grubby little flaws. Plus, some dust jackets are just plain beautifully designed and illustrated. I wish I knew how to do that plastic coated library covering over the jackets. That would be cool.
