Sunday, September 18, 2011
TDC WEAW WEEKEND AT WILLIES: SCREW
I had a vague recollection of the direction to Glinty McFlintlock’s photoshoot for Glinda the Good Witch. I had driven after all. If you ever want to remember the way to a place the first time you drive there, don’t sit in the passenger seat.
But it wasn’t good enough to just drive out in the desert and look around for it. That’s how folks can get lost in the dunes. We would need to use a map and then plot on it with a pencil where we were located all along our path so as to not get lost.
You see, the Internet was not fully developed back then, and there was no such thing as GPS for anyone but the U.S. Military. Google and Mapquest were science fiction material.
Portable phones were not yet smart. No one had one of them giant suitcases except for the wealthy and self-important.
Texting meant pen and paper. Or pencil, if you were old school. LOL, OMG, FML, FAIL.
There were only two people who knew where that place was, and one was off in her own world now, and I had burned that bridge between us. I wasn’t about to go and knock on her parent’s front door, of course. That would be re-dicky-licky: ridiculous. The Fenders might have a song they’d like to play me that I would not particularly enjoy.
The other person who knew the location was ole Glinty himself.
I could not find his advertisement in any of the back pages of the Fuckno Bee, and there was no mention of him in the Yellow Pages. Nobody I spoke to had ever heard of him.
“Hey Katheena, thanks for driving me out here. I brought along a Tupperware jug of ice water and some sammiches in that back pack I put in the trunk.”
Bottled water had not been invented yet. Can you imagine buying water in a disposable plastic container that was manufactured for a single use? It’d be even funnier if the company said that their containers were better for the environment because they now used 20% less plastic.
Katheena said, “This old guy photographed your girlfriend way out here? Isn’t that kind of weird?”
I nodded, “Yeah, I thought so. But Glinda seemed OK with it. Well, until we saw him. Dude looked like a creepy old pervert. But she told me that he did an excellent job. So it must have to do with the light or something out here.”
Katheena took off her shades with one hand and looked out of the window on her driver side at the desertscape flashing by at a hundred miles an hour. She said, “Huh. It is pretty bright. She had her pictures shot outside then?”
I looked back in my head. “No. Actually, he had the windows covered up.”
Katheena just put her shades back on and shook her head. “All righty then.”
A road off to the right up ahead seemed familiar to me, and I told her so. We slowed down and looked at the map. There was no indication of it on the map.
“Will, we’ve driven exactly sixty-six point six miles on this here old stretch since the last intersection. I’m resetting the odometer. Make a mark.”
“Cool. Let’s turn in here and find the driveway. I was driving on some really old crumbly tar, and it curved here and there. I drifted now and then for fun, so there will be digs I made in the soft shoulder. Prolly some chunks of tar, too.”
Indeed, there were scatter marks and flung tar all over the road at some curves. I was a hell of show off, as you might recall.
I hadn’t impressed Glinda all that much with my awesome control of my vehicle: in fact, it had irritated her to a good degree.
Katheena zoomed along, also quite adept of her handling of her lovely car, which she called Orion. We passed a place where it looked like someone had dug in their wheels and piled the dirt and rocks up all over the fucking place.
That was it.
We turned around and came to rest in the middle of the road, and now the skid marks were on Katheena’s side. The springtime sun glowed with big teeth, but the sky looked somehow dim.
There was no house, nor even a horse-stable-turned-garage behind where a house might have once stood.
We got out.
Katheena wore some old leather work boots instead of her dainty sandals. She knew we’d be traipsing around in the desert dust. I smiled. All she needed was a leather jacket and she would have looked like a proper Road Warrior with her wild hair.
Gawdamn it, there were footprints leading up to a bit of a hill where a house could stand, built there above the rush of an arroyo in a sudden desert rain storm. I saw more tracks in the dust that led around the hill to behind, on the right.
A garage might have stood there at one point, on another mound.
What the fuck was going on?
No where were there any indications of tracks left behind by demolition machines or earth moving equipment.
We were there, but there was nothing.
I dug the toe of my Doc into the dirt where the rear entrance to the garage might have once been placed.
Something caught my eye.
A rusted screw had come up into the sunlight.
A screw from a rusty latch that someone might have busted off from out of an old, weather-beaten door lay there.
I picked it up and examined it.
Now here was some proof.
Of exactly what, I could not say.
It simply revealed a single truth, which was this:
A door had once stood there.
Welcome to Sunday. Here’s a cool, hand-drawn cartoon for you.
Let’s go on a cruise, shall we? How about that Titanic? Here are some pics of it, before it left port. I think that Left Port is redundant. It’s cool if you land lubbers don’t know what that means. Anyways…
Speaking of fail, there’s this: From Entropy_Happens, this infuriating link. Words cannot-
Antidote: Cute Couple. Those goshdarned Brits and their brother-sister relations in a lift. Pip pip, cheeri-oh what the fuck?
True Punkology, or simply another Tea-Bagger Party exercise? You decide.
Here is from Saturday about that there above thing, from CBS News.
Anti-antidote: From Dotta. Questionable Content, a funny commix for your Sunday.
Is it a handshake, a whale gulp, or is it simply Venice, Italy?
This here is chust to mess with your head.
Writing on the stalls.
Nasty Bitch spills the truth?
God Help You.
God Help Us All.
OK, One More For You.
Cranberry Zero’s I Heart NSFW, the safest place in the intertubes for pron viewing.