I've been having a recurrent dream with Bobcat Goldthwait for the last couple weeks. Remember him? He was that loud-mouthed, screechy comedian most famous for his role in the Police Academy films from the 80s. Anyway, in the dream, I'm cooking eggs and Bobcat storms into the kitchen and says, "I want mine poached!" and I say, "I'm making us a frittata, Bobcat," and he says, "No, poached!" and I say, "Don't be a fucking baby, Bobcat!" and he breaks down crying, crumbling to the floor and sobbing at my feet.
Anybody want to play psychologist? What the hell does it mean? I'd love to hear any working theories because the only ones I've come up with give me the creeps about myself. Psssst... it's no fun having the creeps about yourself.
Also, in anticipation of Termite Parade coming out July 1st, my publisher is doing a pre-order sale. You can get the book for $10 if you order it by June 14th through Two Dollar Radio's website. It's cheaper than speed, kids, so there's no reason not to get on board!
Plus, speed rots your teeth... and your self esteem... and reading nourishes the soul.
