And everything is free.  Or the currency has changed to something absurd.  Something that’s no longer manufactured.

At least, that’s the premise of my sci-fi novel that I have written in my head. 

Whether it’s a giant monster, a plague of zombies, or simply the economic apocalypse (which has nearly been brought about by George W. Bush, thanks to the rich and/or religitardalated), the apocalypse arrives with promise dripping from its outstretched hands.  With the herd culled, there is more room –and more unattended retail space chock full of GOODIES– for you and me.

Also: this is why manual can openers are SO important.  You don’t want to be caught in the apocalypse with a goddamn electric can opener.  Please. 

In the post-apocalyptic world, I am SO HOT.  With a little help from one of my friends, I can make armor-plated bras.  HOT.

Reality, in the form of Monday, is peeking up over the horizon like a foul spirit.  O murd’rous day!  O spite!  O hell!  O fie, fie, fie!

Start stockpiling toothbrushes.  Just in case.

My family always trusted me with lighters and liquor.  I was not raised drinking, mind you.  I was simply allowed a sip on special days, or a cordial glass filled with cream sherry, just for the taste. 

The joys of being a child of the 70s.

As for lighters and matches, I was an exceptionally good child, dextrous and well-coordinated.  I lit everything myself except for sparklers.  The only mishap I ever had happened when I was 18, in Independence, Missouri, at a light-beer-in-cans-under-age white trash gathering of the slam-dunkingest most low-brow party of my entire life.

I was lighting a sparkler for a small boy.  Sparklers, which burn at a temperature I describe as Obscene Degrees Fahrenheit, are, or used to be, considered children’s fireworks.  I had my Bic flicked and held under the tip of the young boy’s sparkler.  He started when it did, flinched, and jammed the ignited tip into the cuticle of my right thumb.  I strode into the house and plunged my fist, lighter and all, into the cooler of cans, water, and ice.  It was a festival of pain, and the blister was a lingering work of biological art. 

I don’t give a rat’s ass about the so-called meaning of the holiday.  I am not a patriot, but what sport for the sons (and daughters) of liberty.  Getting hammered and lighting consumer-grade explosives.  It’s genius.  Really. 

Plus, I have the day off.  With pay.  So.  Let’s party.

“What’re you doing?”

“Watching Deadliest Catch.”

“Oh, I forgot it was Date Night.”

:D

And to further explain how awesome and hilarious he is, he told me to blog this.

Please reference Captains Johnathan and Andy Hillstrand, a/k/a Hillstrand Sandwich, owners of the Fishing Vessel Time Bandit, who are at a perfectly safe distance for viewing.

P.S. My old boss thinks Sig is HOT. Can’t disagree. Going to go cook the old man dinner, now.

I almost don’t want to post about this because it was so magical for me.  I don’t think a lot of people will understand or believe it. 

In the early 1990s, I "wrote" a song for Jones, one of the cats that my college and post-college roomie and I had a long-ass time ago.  He was a stray that came to live with us, a long, tall, lanky tuxedo cat with bright green eyes and amazing white feet.  The song is a torchy, two-verse jazz-type song that I sing when people want to hear me sing.  (Jones passed away a few years ago, but not that long ago.)

At some point a few months back, I relied on my old standard and sang it at the bar I frequent.  I had forgotten about doing it … here’s how my memory was refreshed:

A kid came out onto the deck, a lovely, gregarious young gay man whose face I recognized, but that’s par for the course at that place.  I had been talking to his friend when he came out, and had introduced myself.  This sparked a round of introductions, during which I re-met this person.  After a few minutes, he said to me, "Hey, do you sing?"  

I said, "Yeah, but I haven’t sung in public in a long time."

He hesitated, then said, "Do you know ‘Chicken Bone Jones’?"  I smiled and said, "Yeah, that’s my song!"

He started shrieking and turning to his friends and saying, "I told you it was her!  It’s her!"  And they turned to him and started singing Chicken Bone Jones (sort of) to him and saying, "HER?"  "Oh my god, it’s HER!"  Then turning to meet me and squeal and shake my hand three times each.  

He said, "You have no idea how famous you are in the theatre department!"  Another of his group said, "Did you know you were a cult figure?!"

Then, they all started asking me to sing for them.

I was overcome, delirious from the attention, and nervous that I would forget the words.

Eventually, I took them into the "red room," a sort of foyer between the smoking deck and the main bar area.  And I told them the brief history of the song.

Then, I sang it for them.  Because I refuse to lose beats even when singing a cappella, one boy added some stripper horns, and a girl snapped her fingers to keep time.  

When I finished, they screamed and clapped and I hugged them all one at a time.

Then, my self-proclaimed "biggest fan" bought be a birthday cake shot.  He said, "Oh my god, everyone’s just startstruck."

No one more than me, let me tell you.

I know this sounds like the hallucination of a former cover band singer, which I am, but it’s all true.  I could probably fill in more detail, but I won’t, not now, anyway.

I promised him a recording of the song, the lyrics in writing, and a photograph of Jones.  He said that this was "the defining moment" of his senior year.

Nothing was going to outshine the moments I spent singing to those kids, and making them so happy.  So, I left early.

And, to quote the jack-ass that tried to pay to cut in the bathroom line, "That’s Lawrence for ya."

I was bored and irritable.

I left early.

Clearly, I was meant for so much more.

The following day, it came to light that another of my favorite drinking establishments had discontinued my favorite fancy-ass martini, the Midnight.  The Midnight had fresh brewed espresso in it.  How such a thing could be discontinued, I do not know. 

Oh, wait.  I liked it.  See Clorox FreshCare and the Yam Neau salad at Zen Zero. 

Bastards.

And people wonder why I hoard.

I do.

I guess the Sim problem is really the least of them.