Editors Note:


EDITOR'S NOTE: Fresh off a three year managerial stint, your friendly neighborhood lenslinger is back on the street and under heavy deadline. As the numbing effects of his self-imposed containment wear off, vexing reflections and pithy epistles are sure to follow...

Tuesday, February 09, 2010

The Live Truck Diaries

Live Truck StuporAre you there, Zod? It's me, Stewart. I know it's odd that I keep you writing you like this - what with you being an effeminate movie villain from my youth and all... But when your stranded in a live truck on the edge of someone else's destiny, the mind wanders. Besides, I used to have a poster of you on my bedroom wall and unlike the Farrah print that hung beside it, channeling your image doesn't feel so skeevy. So bear with me as I center myself, block out the electronics squawking over my shoulder and conjure up a space opera worthy of a Kryptonian refugee as yourself. Don't worry though, we got like twelve minutes...

Dateline NowhereI know, I know: a dozen sweeps round the dial doesn't seem like enough time to lionize the heavy in a bad 70's sequel. PFFT! I've fashioned whole parables from nothing but dashboard dust motes in fewer minutes. Of course, I was safely ensconced in a TV truck then, too. There's just something about a fully extended mast and splayed out cable that slows the Earth's rotation. Unless you're editing under deadline. Then time flies like that goody-two shoes dork in the red and blue suit. You know - he whose cape should not be laundered with everyday washables. 'Kal-El', I believe you locals call him... Either he's dry-humping my transmitter dish as we speak or there's been some kind of horrible bird-strike in the greater Lexington Metropl -- SHHHHHH!

Rox in a BoxI think she heard us. Her - the pretty one with the water bottle and Blackberry. Ever since I've been mumbling into the ether, she's been clockin' my every move. Personally, I don't trust her. A few minutes ago she sprayed hairspray right in my face, then like totally ignored me as she recited something called 'an intro'. I bet she doesn't even own any comic books. What little she knows of your kind comes from a Three Doors Down song and by the way, I don't trust any performer who loses his Southern accent when he sings. Yeah, you could call me paranoid. .. but I'm pretty sure some kind of nefarious super-villan is poisoning live truck generators - because after my third drag from the tail pipe, I got a little dizzy....

Perhaps that's why I couldn't find a phone booth.

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