Okay, this is REALLY weird!

Perhaps I should define terms, being a professional weird person.  I don’t mean uncanny, just strikingly atypical.  For me, that is.

See, I have always been a “do it half-assed, measure once and cut twice” kind of guy.  My third-grade teacher, Mrs Whittle, nailed it.  On my report card, she wrote “Should be straight-A student.  Too satisfied with mediocre work.”  Those words haunted me all my life.  (It’s a good thing I’m not a plastic surgeon.   I can just see it now. Patient: ” My new  nose isn’t straight.”  Me:  “So what?  It works, doesn’t it–air comes through the nostrils and all?”  Patient:  “Yes, all three of them.”)

Fast-forward to this morning.  I’m preparing for the big gun show this weekend, and I’m getting the battle-axe stand out from the corner where t has been gathering dust.  I notice it is  really out of line, and the back part wobbles.  It has been like this for years, ever since I put the thing together, but for some reason,  today I decided to try to find out why.  Turns out, one of the wood screws missed the target completely, and was sort of wedged in between two pieces of wood–it was supposed to be screwed into one of them.  Normally, I would just ignore it, or maybe slather a bunch of Elmer’s glue over it and hope for the best.  But noooo.

I went to the landlord, borrowed a couple of phillips screwdrivers.  This afternoon, I am gonna take the damn thing apart and put it back together properly. 

Sometimes I amaze myself–usually, not in a good way.  Go figure.

A Few Words About Asparagus

Eat more.  It’s good, and good for you.

Plus it does interesting things to your urine.

(This message brought to you as a  pubic service  by the Alaskan Coalition of PETA and the Golden Showers Club of Golden, Colorado.)

  David Riddle, RIP

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My mother died recently and ever since, I have been thinking about death more than usual. This morning, I got to thinking about David Riddle, aka The Riddler. We used to get high a lot together, I’d front him pot to sell but the profits all wound up in his arm. He ended up living with his parents in his old room, would do vodka and reds and wander around town. The cops knew he was harmless  and pretty much left him alone. One time he was wandering around the rail yards, fell under a train, lost a couple of fingers. Next time he did it, a few years later, he got all dismembered. He was in his thirties, still dressed like he did in high school. Some Riddler wisdom–”If drugs are a crutch, I’m building myself a wheelchair.” Another time, in 1971, he was at my nice apartment talking loudly about dope–I asked him to lower his voice. So he knelt down, put his face by the carpet and kind of hissed “Heroin, heroin.” Still another time, someone asked him what it was like to drop acid. His reply–”What is it like to take a shit?” In life Dave really didn’t seem to belong anywhere. I guess that’s why he used to walk around a lot. For a while, he lived in the closet of the manager’s office of the Troll Palace, a rock club a friend owned. Whatever. Rest in pieces, dude.