Stalking Dawn

Morning News Crews: We do more before nine a.m. than some people do all day. But then we pass out in a pile of dry cereal dust around quarter to three, roll off the couch and just hang there upside down until the dog begins licking us before it too collapses into some kind of sugar-induced stupor. At least I think that's why I woke up french-kissing the family poodle. (He smelled of Fruity Pebbles.) Either way it was a bonding experience I don't regret, even if I do have a sudden urge to piss on every mailbox in the neighborhood. But that's not important right now. What IS important is that I finish this entry before bedtime rolls around. Look, it's almost seven already! Hey, where's my sleep mask?!?

SO HELP ME, IF ANY OF YOU WORMS TOOK MY SATINY PASSPORT TO NAPTOWN, I WILL STRIKE DOWN UPON THEE WITH GREAT VENGEANCE AND FUR-I-OUS ANGER!

A-hem. Sorry to go all Tarantino back there. I've just been a little on edge ever since I started working the overnight shift. Hmm? Yeah, I know it's only Monday, but I'm three hours in the hole already! Understand, I don't get a lot of sleep to begin with. (These screeds don't write themselves.) I got a caffeine habit, a writing compulsion and early onset of that weird old man thing where you wake up at dawn and wanna plow shit. Turn all that upside down for a week of overnight shifts and you have the makings of a mid-Wednesday breakdown. I can't afford that! I gotta move an eighteen year old into her first dorm room on Friday. At this rate, I'll be even more zombiified than the rest of the hollow-eyed Dads schlepping trunks and comforters up a non air conditioned stairwell! What will the children think? Ahhh, it doesn't really matter. By then I'll be so brain-dead I won't be able to discern between a grateful hug from my oldest child and a terse invitation to leave campus NOW.

Why, already, my density is intensifying. Earlier I was napping at an especially long red light and when the inevitable horn behind me began blowing I awoke to find three dried-up I.Q. points stuck to my chin. I can't spare those! I'm already a decade late on a book I'm supposed to be writing! I use to yell out answers (in the form of a question) during Jeopardy! each night. Now I need flash cards and a service animal just to get through Wheel of Fortune! WHEN WILL IT STOP? Better yet, forget I asked.  It's damn near eight o clock and I'm late for the hay. Somewhere out there a grassy overpass is in need of a pre-dawn camera crew and at this rate I'll still be typing when the producers start counting down in my ear. Soooo....

Kill that light, would ya?

Dorks of Yore

From the addled mind of David Arquette, a movie so stupid it nuked an entire genre.... 

KeyMasters Three: The Reckoning

(Rated R) After losing their jobs as janitors at the urinal cake outlet, three bumbling cinephiles team up to fight crime and confuse females along the sun-bleached streets of Myrtle Beach. Working as third rate celebrity imposters, the tubby trio befriend a young TV news shooter - who can't be convinced they're NOT the real Ghostbusters. Hilarity ensues until the four stumble into the den of a local meth lab kingpin, who mistakes their constant use of movie quotes as some kind of DEA doublespeak. Certain the sweaty strangers are the first wave of an anti-drug task force, the kingpin (a heavily moustachioed Howie Mandel) resorts to sorcery, summoning an underworld demon so cheaply rendered that critics later compared it to "a confused poodle retching on an Etch a Sketch".

Shot with cameras purloined from The Lenslinger Institute, KeyMasters Three: The Reckoning ("K3TR" to its half dozen fan-boys) languished in the vault for years as producers tried to distance themselves from this seriously skeevy vehicle. When eventually dumped to the dollar theater college circuit, the movie sparked outrage among indie film critics for its unintentional mimicking of shitty art-house production techniques. Sliced together by editors thought to be hard at work on the Sling Blade reboot, Keymasters Three signaled the the end of the self-referential gross-out bromantic comedy paranormal escape caper flick. Thank. God. Soon after its release, fans of the original Ghostbusters picketed Arquette's offices for dragging the Ivan Reitman classic into a film so piss poor and derivative that not even Ray Parker, Jr. wanted his name on the soundtrack.

You have to admit, that song really sucked.

(Special Thanks, JD Angel)   

His Cross to Wear

You might question his fashion sense (shower shoes and soiled khakis? How Two Thousand and late!), but news shooters everywhere will agree Doug Richards is sporting the PERFECT accessory: a fully erect tripod. Now, I know what you're thinking ... it barely matches his belt. But when a field reporter of any persuasion latches onto a set of sticks, he (or she) transcends convention, surpasses fad and strikes a singularly noble pose. Sadly, it's a look not many young reporters go for. They're far too busy juggling status updates to grope anything as lowly as a camera stand. That's their every right, I guess. But as a guy who often schleps solo, I have to wince whenever a partner departs the car empty-handed. Don't get me wrong. I can drag along every tool I got and still run circles around the penny-loafer set. But damn if a little assistance doesn't go along way when you're rushing headlong into the void. Or even when you're just trying to get through a set of double doors without reconfiguring your biscuits!

Sooo, if you're a talking hair-do under thirty and are lucky enough to even have a photographer, do us all a favor and lend some assistance once in awhile. That surly guy with all the press-passes dangling from his rear-view mirror will appreciate it, your story will look better and (s)he may even tell you the next time you have bits of guacamole dip stuck to your teeth.  Who knows? You might even work up a callous or two. Those will come in damn handy at your next shop, when your new boss offers YOU a trunk full of tools and his hearty congratulations on being the Middle Valley's newest video-ninja slash multimedia marauder.

Do yourself a favor, though: hold out for the jet-pack. You'll need it the next time you're gettin' wild with a turnstile while balancing all kinds of pricey gizmos you don't own. Trust me.