OK, let’s get the quippin’ out of the way:
“WOMEN? BUT WE THOUGHT YOU WERE TEH GHEY!”
Ah-dur-hur-hur. It is to laugh. You are, unquestionably, The Master of Comedy.
Now then… TO BUSINESS!
Nellie McKay
Date of Birth: 13 April 1982, London, England, UK
Birth Name: Nell Marie McKay
Height: 5′ 7½” (1.71 m)
Honestly, I sort of wish I was making this up.
Cash Money sent me a link that was too good to pass up. The BBC is reporting that a 65(!) year old woman has been arrested in relation to the deaths of two twin midget wrestlers (!!) in a Mexican hotel room. Her supposed accomplice, The Fat One (!!!), is still at large. Authorities believe the midgets were killed by an overdose of eye-drops slipped into their drinks by the women in an attempted robbery.
Mexican midget wrestlers arrest
I think I recall reading this in a short story once. No, wait. That was all in my head.
We’ve officially established that truth is ravenously, frothingly, blood curdlingly, stranger than fiction.
While not exactly epic, this marks BoL’s 200th post, and I keep returning to Gestalt’s tribute to our first hundred (oh yes, self-referential posting. Meta-irony chewing on its own tail). And as such I thought it was appropriate to add a little music of my own.
I know, I know, more Lars. But still, that’s just the warm up. Nostalgia has stricken me to the point where my spine hurts, and I recall the early days of BoL; when we were a loose collective of wandering artisans, adrift in a cloud of aerosol caffeine and romantic dreams. As it happens at the time I was in the midst of a (still unfinished) short story, and I couldn’t resist posting the lot of it to mark the occasion. There’s much, much more after the jump. Feel free to offer suggestions! ( naturally we work under the 
)
Untitled
“Three seasons by, careening down the Eastern seaboard like a pack of rapid gulls.
“You’re entirely missing the point, ” He growled. Max had a face full of Espresso and Dexedrine. The kind of grin that said ‘you’ve got maybe 20 miles, then my muscles start audibly popping and we’d better seek medical attention.’
“As long as we can get some good pie, it’s worth it.” This is me speaking. Although at this point there’s a real question as to how many “I’s’” I am. One or forty-seven, we still managed to fill the back seat with our inaugural presence.
“No, I’m serious,” Max is getting a little worked up by this point, “We’ve got cargo that’s got maybe a shelf life of like a day. If this isn’t off by tomorrow night, we’re fucked!”
“Somehow,” Chelsea said, “ I doubt a trunk full of full of French suppositories and birth control pills are going to rot in our care overnight.” Chelsea was driving. In fact, she was the only one who ever seemed to be driving. It could be she was the only one who had the talent for it. She had the kind of vague red hair that most women dye theirs red-then-blond-then-red-then-brown to get. None of us had ever had the chance to check her to see if it was real.
At this point I start thinking, “What kind of amateurs have I landed with?” This is replaced shortly by: “Why hasn’t anyone ever remarked upon how much trees and radishes have in common?”
What can I say, we’re driving through Vermont, and these are the kinds of things that bother me right now.
“This could be our chance though!” Max is still on his rise; it’ll be at least an hour before he comes down enough to start needing another serious Starbucks fix. Fucking wanker, we should’ve left him in Nova Scotia.
“DaHHling, “ Chelsea drones, “If Providence isn’t over the horizon by morning, then breakfast and anything else you want is on me.” This is one her patented lines, but in three long years, I’ve never known her to lose.
“Umm, sorry to interrupt, but what’s that disturbing ethereal backwash?” The radishes are gone, replaced by some rather impressive viridian clouds.
Turn’s out Chelsea’s been whistling for the last half hour.
“That is the sound of the New Moon.”
“That is the sound of Some one who’s gonna sleep in a hostel.”
“Three Blind Mice, off-key,” I say, “ Is hardly Haute Couture.” Again, this is me, but against my better judgment.
“Didn’t you realize? Its not where you’re going, its how you get there.” Chelsea’s hair whips round in the convertible, framing her face in a crimson nimbus aura.
I don’t have anything to say to this, and I think Max may have finally popped.
Dane Cook has a bit where he talks about placating the office whackaloon. Say what you want about Cook, his philosophy of getting the freaks squarely in your corner is one that I have long practiced. Cook’s field guide for identifying a future recipient of a Snickers is to find the guy whose shirt pocket is a jubilee of pens who he goes on to promise, “I know you love pens and I happen to love pens, too. We should talk about pens someday— just sit around talk about pens. Inks, pens, caps… I love ‘em!”
Well, today is that day, my friends. I’ma talk to you about pens.
BATH— How’s this for inane: twenty one hundred hours, Deadline Eve, inspiration distant, connection to world at large vague, right foot ankle deep in pilfered Little Playmate Igloo cooler full of scalding water, confidence in Mayo Clinic website remedy for ingrown toenail waning. Then this, bed, and another three hours starting at a skein of yarn, nine hours of 14-year-old sass, 20 minutes of Daily Show joy. And what you’re doing is so very different, I’m sure.
Cut to Kon Asian Bistro.
First break in stir craziness in a good long while and it’s nice to be around adults my age who don’t wear shorts to work. A first for me: I’m over dressed, but— good news— somehow, I’m still the asshole for it. Doesn’t matter; I’m turbo stoked to see someone throw vittles around on a grill then eat ‘em. A few burned maitais and it’s Go Time.
Enter Hibachi Guy.
