Six Stories About Chris
I've been sick for the past week now, which is a condition of mine that's not exactly unfamiliar to the readers of the ISB. I haven't noticed, but today Rob Lindsey, my most erstwhile and loyal reader, informed me that not only am I sick a lot, but I also write about it a lot.
Point being, I'm a frigg'n mess.
I was under the impression that I was dealing with some sort of lingering head cold, but last night I decided not to take NyQuil since it makes me oversleep, and ended up a coughing lump of misery, staying awake until six in the morning hacking up my lungs, a process that has led me to re-evaluate my current status.
As it turns out, I'm dying of the Goddamn Consumption.
So at six in the morning, I get up, pop some DayQuil, and drop back into my bed for two hours of sleep, during which I dream a movie trailer.
The movie's called The Trap, starring Shaun of the Dead's Simon Pegg, and it's a psychological thriller about a man who not only sees things that aren't there, but he doesn't see some things that are. He has conversations with nonexistant people, doesn't respond when people talk to him, and in one scene, he's drinking at a bar and looks up in the mirror, only to realize that unbenknownst to him, he's covered in blood and dirt and looks like he's been in a fight.
Then, at one point in the dream of the trailer, he suddenly goes: "Aha! The writers!" After which he bends out of the shot, leaving the camera to pan down to see just his head gliding across a checkerboard floor, its eyes slowly being replaced by deep black holes.
Unusual, even for me. But even moreso was the fact that the dream was so vivid that when I woke up, I wondered why I dreamt such an odd ending for a trailer that I thought actually existed until halfway through my shower.
We spent a good bit of time at work today looking over the new Marvel and DC solicitations, and I just want to say one thing: I may just be able to die happy now that I've seen Phil Hester draw Darkhawk, Sleepwalker, Dagger, Araña, Gravity, Speedball and X-23 having the biggest C-List team-up since the Champions disbanded.
There was one guy on the cover I didn't recognize, but fortunately Tug was there to set me straight about Terror, Inc. Not only did he explain his powers--the uncanny ability to attach your limbs to his own body and thereby gain your powers--but he also helped me put together a run.
Am I going to read it? Of course. Hell, the Punisher's in 5 and 6.
The night before last, also under the influence of cold medicine, I had a dream where I was having a party with the Woggles at my grandparents' house.
Why exactly the Band From Below the Sweet Tea Line™ and I were kicking it P. Diddy style at Grandma's, apparently at Christmas, which is how I picture the place in my memory, I'm still not quite sure, but I do know that the Professor of Rock 'n' Roll gave me two hundred and fifty bucks and told me to get him some drinks from the kitchen.
So I head down the hallway to where the Professor of Rock 'n' Roll--whom I presumably just left--is selling drinks out of a cooler on my grandmother's table. So I hand over Professor A's money to Professor B, and buy a drink made of whiskey and orange juice, and a small 8-ounce can of Tab. Not only was this weird enough to wake me up, but when it did, I actually said aloud: "Do they even still make Tab?"
Surprisingly enough, they do.
My main man Rob Lindsey has recently been rocking a temp job at the SC Surplus Warehouse, which is apparently where the government liquidates a lot of its property to you, the consumer. The details aren't important. What is important is that Rob was able to buy a bag of knives for ten bucks.
A bag... of knives.
When he said it, it was like music to my young ears. I had assumed it would be some kind of deal like the one they have over at BudK, the fine people who send us catalogs specializing in the finest cutlery and Nazi paraphenalia (for historical purposes only, according to their disclaimer), but as it turns out, it's even MORE awesome.
For ten bucks, Rob was able to purchase a bag containing seven knives that had been confiscated at the airport. Now if that doesn't make you proud to be an American, I don't know what will.
So I'm doing inventory tonight at the store, and Tug walks by, so I yell out his name to get his attention. Much to my surprise, a shout of: "WHAT?!" comes from behind me, over on the new comics wall, which is not where Tug is. Now it's not a common name, so I take a peep over my shoulder and see none other than our very own Gigolo Sam standing three inches away from the new comics.
In case you're not familiar with my tales of customer woe, he's standing that close because he's legally blind, which is unfortunately not an assett in the world of the minight cowboy.
I decide to ignore him and yell for Tug again, and Gigolo Sam (whose real name, for the record, sounds nothing like "Tug"), and he goes:
"Man, I don't know WHY you keep CALLIN' me."
He says this to no one in particular, still nose-to-nose with this week's issue of Conan.
After he left, I ended up complaining about the guy to Chad, bemoaning the fact that even beyond just being rude, the guy can't see OR hear worth a damn.
"Yeah," says Chad, "but have you ever seen that motherfucker play pinball?"