Friday the 13th

Dear Diary,

You wouldn’t believe the night I had! So I go to this work at a camp, Camp Crystal Lake, which some people call Camp Blood. Yuck! Anyway, I’m not even sure I want to be here, but everyone has been super nice. Except that Annie girl. She never showed. Ugh! Cooks are so unreliable. There’s a lot of hard work setting up a camp and we were doing our jobs! The police even came by thinking we were smoking up the weed. Boy was he wrong! We were mainly there for easy sex. So Ned takes off and never comes back and then Marcie and Jack head off to “take a walk” and we never see them again either. So anyway, me, Bill and Brenda are playing strip Monopoly until a storm blows the front door open. So Brenda had to leave. And just when it was getting good. So it’s just me and Bill. Bill runs out for something and I swear I hear Brenda scream and see lights on. So Bill and I go to investigate and we can’t find anybody anywhere. Plus we find a bloody ax in bed. Double yuck! Who sleeps with an ax anyway? So we go back to the cabin and I decide to take a quick nap while Bill checks on the generator. Well, I wake up and Bill’s not back, so I go see if he needs help. And what do I find, but Bill hanging from the door with arrows stuck in him. Gee whiz. So I’m back in the cabin and Brenda’s corpse comes crashing through the window. Classic Brenda. She can be sooo rude sometimes. So I go running out of the cabin and there’s a sweet old lady pulling up. She sees what happened and starts acting all weird. Like, talking in a little kids voice weird. And that little kid is messed up! Anyway, she starts chasing me around with a machete. I knock her down a couple times, but she keeps after me. So I cut her head off. Super gross! So I climb into a canoe and row out into the water and fall asleep. I love sleeping! And I wake up and it’s a new day with police cars and sunshine and then that weirdo Jason kid jumps up and pulls me under water. What a jerk! And then I wake up in the hospital. Everybody else died, but they never found that boy. I know I told Steve I’d give it another week at Camp Crystal Lake, but after that night, no way! Besides, he’s dead. Boy, am I rethinking this career in camp counseling after all. But I’ll worry about that later. I’m sleepy again. Until next time.

Alice

Advertisements

The 20 Most Valid Reasons Nashville Drivers Do Not Use Their Turn Signal

  1. The clicking sound it makes reminds them of a ticking bomb and/or the alarm clock.
  2. They don’t know how.
  3. They have one hand on their cell phone, the other on their genitals and they are steering with their knees.
  4. They drive a pickup truck, so laws don’t apply to them.
  5. It is too far away.
  6. It it too strenuous of a task.
  7. It’s where the government hides it’s spying technology.
  8. They broke it off to shove it up their ass.
  9. It once tried to seduce their teenage daughter.
  10. They are afraid of phallic shapes.
  11. It is more dangerous to let others know where they are going.
  12. It takes approximately 1.42 calories to use and they already worked out today.
  13. They know where they’re going, shouldn’t others be able to read their mind? I mean, duh!
  14. They don’t touch anything larger than their penis.
  15. It’s too much like the probe the aliens put in their butt.
  16. It is eating their soul.
  17. They’re driving far too fast to bother with a signal.
  18. They drive a Lexus, so fuck you.
  19. A turn signal killed their father.
  20. Their conversation on their cell phone is far too important to ignore while driving a car, and lets face it, turn signals are a distraction.

The Mailbox

The mailbox seemed to jump two feet left before ending up in my trunk. What was left of it anyway. Right through the engine block like a goddamn warm butter knife. It was beautiful. The slow snap shot where so much happens that you’ll barely remember.

Brick and mortar explode with the sweet kiss of chromed metal. Your natural instinct is to put your arms up to block your face, as if that will help at all. Glass and the airbag are the first obstacles. At least the windshield splinters more than anything, but that airbag, holy shit. Airbags deploy at around 200 miles an hour. That’s fucking fast. It’s a good thing they go directly into your face and chest or it could get ugly. But it can be lifesaving, so you’ve got that.

Then things get bad. Really, really bad. Cars do not crumple like you might expect. Definitely not like in the cartoons. Things fly everywhere in an accident. I distinctly remember watching the gum fly out of my mouth, stop in mid-air, float into the backseat and then end up in my lap. If I hadn’t already shit my pants that would have ruined my jeans.

I don’t know what happened. How it happened even.

“…Ricky.”

I was just towing the line.

“Ricky.”

I was just…

“Rick!”

“Yeah?”

“Did you hear me?”

“What’s that?”

“What do you want for dinner?”

“Oh… Whatever you want is fine.”

“You never listen to me. What were you thinking about?”

“Just mailboxes.”

We’re all nerds in our own way; sports nerds, sci-fi nerds, pop culture nerds, music nerds, theater nerds, opera nerds, book nerds, computer nerds.  I could go on, but you get the point.  My dad is a math nerd.  He’s an engineer, so it’s a good thing that he is a math nerd.  He once tried to explain a blue print of a transformer to me when I was about ten years old.  I didn’t get it then and I probably wouldn’t now.  So, needless to say, we are very different creatures, but one of the things we share is comedy.  My dad is a comedy nerd.  He introduced me to the Marx Brothers, Cheech and Chong, Animal House and Mel Brooks.  So, in a way, this all your doing dad because I’m a comedy nerd too, and, while I’m sure at times he may not wish it were true, I dedicate this blog to him.  And to all the comedy nerds out there.  We’re a bunch of weirdo’s that feed on the stoicism and structure of a society that takes itself far too seriously.  And we are the weird.  But so was Chaplin and Keaton and Abbott & Costello and Pryor and Martin and Newhart and Seinfeld and Kaufman and all the rest.  And if we can make them laugh we’ve done alright.

Indoor Plumbing

Indoor Plumbing

 

In the 20’s my great grandfather was in the building outhouses trade. He built a lot of them in the town he and my great grandmother grew up in. Then, as indoor plumbing started making its way into the town, driving the value of an outhouse down, they moved further out into the country where there was no indoor plumbing in sight.

They followed this cycle for several years as more and more sewer lines were laid, pushing them further into the wilderness. At each stop great grandpa would build a house for the family, which grew as it traveled. Each house looked like a larger version of his classic outhouse design, but they always held up and kept the family safe.

My grandmother met my grandfather in the town the family finally settled in. Great grandpa was getting tired of relocating and with no son to pass the business along to he hired my grandfather fresh out of school. As it happens in small towns, my grandfather began courting my grandmother for a couple months before they got married. They all lived in the same house for a time as grandpa and great grandpa built the newlyweds a house of their own. Grandpa updated the design of the house and they finished just as my mom was born. Grandma always used to tease grandpa about flying into the hospital 100 miles an hour when he got the news. The hospital was two towns over and grandpa and great grandpa were making finishing touches on the house when they heard grandma was in labor. Great grandpa swore they’d never get his butt clenched prints out of the bench seat of the truck after the death ride to the hospital.

When I was younger I used to love hearing great grandpa talk about joists and framing walls and polyurethane. We would sit on the back porch listening to a ball game on the radio and he would sometimes give me a sip of beer. That was our secret. But he would tell me stories of moving from town to town, building buildings for people to shit in; his words, but poetic nonetheless. It all sounded so adventurous and exciting, so much different than my fairly stable childhood.

Great Grandpa died last winter at the ripe old age of 97. He outlived most everyone his age, including my great grandmother. After she passed, much of the romance left his story telling, but I always loved visiting. I’d help out around the house as he was getting too old to do much and he’d watch to make sure I fixed everything correctly. ‘This house has been here damn near 70 years’, he’d say. ‘You keep it up it’ll be here another 70 more.’ And I have, I’ve tried at least. I want that to be the place I can take my grand kids some day and tell them stories of my own. Stories of their great great grandpa.