…from Amoeba.

I.

Dave and I are at the info counter.

“How’s it goin’?” he asks.

“I’m a bit wobbly, to be honest.”

“Like a Weeble? You know they don’t fall down.”

“I remember really liking Weebles.”

“You ever notice how when they stopped making Weebles, terrorism spread? Maybe they should do Weeble drops on hotbeds of discontent.”

“Yeah. It might do some good.”

II.

James Spader browses through Science Fiction and Fantasy. I don’t recognize him until Rosa points it out. He’s wearing a dark blue hat. He’s with his son. Just chillin’. We don’t speak to him at all, but we do consider browsing just ahead of him and seeding the section with copies of Mannequin.

III.

An Italian woman and her son. She’s got purple lipstick, matching clothes–a kind of hip Euro-blossom appeal. Whatever that means. Her son is a whirlwind of attention-grabbing dialogue. She’s been asking me for comedies that are smart and funny. On VHS. Oh, and gay. “I love gay men,” she says. “Gay men have a better sense of style than women. They are so wonderful.” So I hand her The Birdcage and Priscilla, neither of which she’s seen. She adds them to the stack of Hendrix videotapes in her hands.

Her son, meanwhile, has three DVDs in his own hands. Pirates of the Caribbean, Jason Goes to Hell and The Matrix: Reloaded. “Why DVD?” she asks him. “I like DVDs,” he answers, and prompted by my own suggestion, he adds, “They’re cooler.”

“You know I don’t have a DVD player. Just videotape.”

“I know.”

“Look at those movies in your hands. Why? Why do you want them?”

“Because I want to see Jason go to Hell.”

“No, no, why do you want DVD when you know I can’t play DVD?”

“Because it ticks you off.”

“Yes, I thought so.”

“I’m just kidding. How long have I know you? Eleven years, yes?”

“Almost twelve.”

“That’s right. Almost twelve. I’m just kidding. You know I love you, Mama.”

“I know.”

The floodgates have opened up on Strange Angels. That simply means I’ve been completely immersed in the writing over the past couple days. When that happens, It gets difficult to post regular updates, even dopey ones. It’s not that I’m writing for hours on end without a break, that I finish a session with cracked and bleeding fingers, that I have to drag myself to the couch when it’s all over and turn on Space Ghost Coast to Coast. My writing process is a lot less intense than that. But when the writing’s going well, there’s a lot of wandering about, both physically and mentally, interspersed with repeated keyboard sessions. And that can take all day…

“My wife’s a water sign, I’m an earth sign; together we make mud.”

“I mean, she’s attached to a machine that keeps her alive � the refrigerator.”

“The other night, she met me at the front door wearing a see-through negligee. The only trouble is she was coming home.”

“I’m so ugly, when I was a kid, my father bought a new billfold, and, instead of my picture, he carried the picture of the kid who came with the wallet.”

“I tell you, I don’t get no respect. When I step into an elevator, the attendant looks at me and says, ‘Basement?'”

“You wanna have laughs? Do what I do. When I go through a tollbooth, I keep going. I tell the guy, ‘The car behind me is paying for two.'”

“I could tell that my parents hated me. My bath toys were a toaster and a radio.”

“My wife, let me tell you about my wife. She wants to have sex in the back seat of the car, but she wants me to drive.”

We’ll miss ya, Rodney. As my coworker Bradley writes on a little sign last night, “Maybe in heaven we’ll get to see Meet Wally Sparks 2.”

My blog gathers image thumbnails for the sidebar from Buzznet every time it loads. However, the site seems to be having some sort of trauma tonight. I was able to connect at one point, just long enough to see that someone discovered I’m a Marillion fan (we’re an excitable bunch) and then it all went black again. Thanks to the problem, some browsers may take some time loading this page. Sorry about that. It’s one of the risks of syndicating content from other sites, I guess.

It’s erupting again, folks, this time with considerably less drang.

I call up Boss today. It’s the last day of September and I’m intensely curious as to whether I’ll be able to pay rent this month. He says, absolutely, I won’t be a total bastard and ream you this month the way I normally do (I’m paraphrasing) and let’s meet at the Starbuck’s on Olympic and Doheny. We can discuss things. I get there at the arranged time (3:30) and order some coffee and sit down with my notebook. As I wait, I write this rather lengthy musing:

[At this point I get a little depressed. It’s not the nicest Starbuck’s, and even the really nice ones make me feel queasy.]

It’s now four o’clock and my cell phone is ringing. It’s Boss, of course. “The bank was a nightmare,” he says. “I have money for you, but I don’t have the time to talk. We’ll have to discuss things over the phone later. Can you meet me outside the Starbuck’s?” I gather my things as I listen to him proceed to get lost, but spotting his Mercedes down the street, I’m able to talk him out of his confusion. He pulls up, blocking the driveway, rolls down his window and hands me a stack of twenties.

“Is this the full $750?” I ask.

“No, it’s four hundred. It was all I could get today. I’ll give the other four hundred tomorrow. We’ll talk about the websites over the phone. I have to rush off to a meeting.”

Fine. As he drives off, I pocket the money understanding at last that he only really dabbles in sanity. As I drive home I’m grateful that I have Saeed & Palash to help me preserve my own.