Posting is coincidental to the emails, honestlyDec 09 '02 Write an essay on this topic.
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The Bottom Line The bottom line is this: "For years people put up with Kathy Lee, never imagining a Kelly Ripa was waiting." This is true in many ways.
It isn't every night that you stand five feet away from Mark Eitzel as he sings his guts out. Maybe if it was every night it would lose that "grab you by the soul"-ness that made every damn problem in the world dissolve into what it really was--something that exists only in your mind to pester you. Only in your mind, and legal documents. It isn't every night that you leave the Mark Eitzel show happy with the world no matter how much it tries to destroy you, get home still feeling the effects of a long time coming cigarette and decide on a whim to put on your "Thriller" PictureDisc as an act of rebellion directed at both collectors and the Cheney administration. It isn't every night that you dig through the pile of records only to find that "Thriller" is gone. Stolen. Gone. The happy cigbuzz ends as abruptly as my run on sentences might, sometimes. ----------- the next day ----------- "I don't care how much I have to pay you, I want it found. MONEY IS NO OBJECT!!", I barked and lied. It seemed funny to pay a man named "Digger" to find a stolen object. I hung up. The rest of the day was uneventful. I looked in the mirror wondering if this new hair stick pomade was really doing the trick, for a little while. I went back to the mirror to think about the goatee, if it was a bad idea. I looked at my shoes, wondering if I will ever get around to cleaning them up or throwing them out. I vacuumed a bit to chill out. Boooring. I blew up the inflatable mattress, put it in the bathtub. I had to use the Ms. PacMan doll for a pillow. I curled up in a warm duck print blanket and fell asleep in my bathtub bed. I slept so soundly I missed the urgent phone calls. ---------- next day ----------- Machine: "Dude, this is Digger. You aren't going to believe this, man! Answer the phone!" beep Machine: "Hey, I am not kidding around! Get the phone. It is too cold to be out on this payphone trying to wake your azzz up. Pick up the phone!" beep Machine: "Okay, I give up. Call me in the morning." I called him. I wasn't the only one missing "Thriller". It wasn't limited to picture discs, either. Throughout the United States Of America (GO RED WHITE AND BLUE) every copy of Micheal Jackson's masterpiece was missing. I boiled a ham and tried to come up with some theories. ----------- elsewhere ------------ Russell Jones sat in his cell, depressed but calmed. He didn't know if the man he used to be existed anymore, of if he would be that man again. The world outside was changing, could he adapt when he was free, or would he just OD the first night out? He had to start small, to prepare for freedom. Nobody knew it, but he had reasserted his control over Micheal Jackson's Thriller. One day soon he would be free. (to be continued)  |
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