Bhodi’s True Romance Tales

Since Valentine’s Day is coming up, I was thinking about some of the more romantic things I’ve done over the years.   This led me to one conclusion.

I’m a romantic guy.

Don’t believe me?  Here, let me tell you some true stories of some of my adventures.  I swear on the hairs on my chinny chin chin that this story is true.

See, back in high school I wasn’t NEARLY the chicken I am now.  I did all kinds of crazy stuff.  I’ve told you about my ex–the Big Ex, as in the one that all women until Stace paled before.  Well, as you’ll recall, at one time she was involved with my former best friend.  Well, New Year’s Eve things happened that she didn’t feel very good about and I confessed my feelings for her at two in the morning over the phone.  She confessed hers for me, and all of a sudden I’m the James Bond of relationships.  I’d also told her at some point how I snuck out of my house to see that selfsame former friend’s cousin a few times and how I should do that for HER.  So, we picked a night.  Now, her house was a bit farther than his house was, so I used my bike.  Two o’clock in the morning, I’m riding over to her house.  I get there, and taped to the window was a note–”Knock softly!”  So I did.  Nothing.  I knock again, and then her hand hits the glass.  She slowly opens the window as my breath quickens.  I climb into the window and when I’m halfway through, her dog, that so-well-trained-dog, barks.  I look at her, she looks at me, HOLY @%$^!  WE’RE GONNA GET CAUGHT!  With every possible mental ability that I might have, I will her father to stay asleep.  No noises, so we’re safe.  We get into her daybed which at that point felt as roomy and natural as the largest California king size.  Long conversation interrupted by some serious making out occasionally.   Nothing more because she was still technically not broken up with Round Boy.  After a couple hours, we figured I should go home.  I rode back, feeling like a million bucks.  I snuck back in and went to sleep, no one in my house the wiser.

That is, until my all-too proper cousin from deep-woods Alabama heard the story and told my parents.  Moral of the story–don’t tell Stephanie ANYTHING.  EVER.

Books

I love books.  New books, old books, short books, long books, comic books, um, non-comic books, I love books.  I even have a bunch of classic sci fi books on a CD-ROM.  I love them.  I love reading them, I love writing them, I love thinking about them, I love the feel of a book in my hands, the feel of the paper, the smell of time in the pages, the connection to what’s written in my mind. 

Brian’s starting to feel the same way.  We figured it was high time to get him a library card.  I had one for years, a shiny white card with LIBRARY CARD emblazoned in large, friendly letters.  It was kind of a Hitchiker’s Guide card that wanted to avoid any questions about it’s identity.  Well, somewhere that got lost.  Now, here was the problem.  We live literally on the county line between Bucks and Montgomery counties.

Stace probably wouldn’t be happy with me revealing that, but considering the people that will read this very likely don’t have any contact with the people she’s worried about finding out, I think it’s okay. 

ANYWAY–there are two libraries I could’ve gone to.  The closest Montgomery county one was about a forty minute ride.  The closest Bucks one, on the other side of the county line, is about fourteen and a half inches from our front door.  So, that’s where I went.  I wasn’t sure if I could get a card, but the librarian told me once I got there all I need to do is get a Montgomery county card in thirty days and my card will be valid.  So, new card in hand, I went home and got the kid and we went back. The librarian was all set to give Brian a card, but then another librarian said he’d need the Montgomery card first.  Well, poopy.  But then, the first librarian takes Brian into the children’s section and tells him about a contest they’re having where all the different grades write books and the best are bound and published and available one the shelf.

I know the look I get when I get a writing idea.  I’ve seen pictures.  I saw that look on his face. 

We poked around the section for a few minutes, and then he asked for some privacy to look.  I went and poked around.  Found an audiobook to check out, then found the books they were selling.  A Lovecraft collection was a quarter.  I didn’t have any cash on me.  Looked at the science books.  Thumbed through an astronomy book.  After a while, I went over and got Brian.  He had two Christmas books to check out.  I had my audiobook. 

Right after we got in the car, he told me the story for his book.  Sammy the fish is a purple striped fish.  He likes to tell jokes, but everyone around him doesn’t like jokes, they’re too serious.  Sammy goes on a trip to find people that will like him and his jokes, somewhere he belongs and he helps fish along the way.

Books are good.

Advice to people making documentaries about Roswell

Get your facts straight first.

Whatever crashed, and I don’t know what it was, crashed on July 3rd, 1947.  It wasn’t discovered until July 7th. 

Mac Brazel did not own the ranch where whatever it was crashed.  He was a ranch hand. 

The anthropomorphic dummies pointed to for the bodies were A)much taller than the bodies reported and B)not first used until the ’50’s. 

These are just some of the facts that often get fowled up when documentaries are made, whether for or against the extraterrestrial theory.

Every so often my exsistence is justified

I’m really starting to think I shoulda been a therapist. People find it easy to talk to me and I just spent the last 40 minutes talking one of my friends off the ledge. I just don’t know that I would have the patience.  Still like helping people though.

Now that it’s 2010

No, this isn’t going to be a “Gee, I miss Roy Scheider” post. No, insead, I’m going to recall a spot that Avery Brooks did for something talking about how we all thought we’d have flying cars by now, but with all the communications and computer tech we have, no one needs a flying car. To that, I say UH UH.

I want my darn flying car.

What Was In It For Marley?

No, not Bob.

I’m talking Jacob, here. Did he get anything out of turning Scrooge into Captain Christmas of the Yuletide Commandoes? Time off for good behavior? A side trip to Tahiti? Gozer’s phone number?

Notice To Geeks Everywhere

If there is, in the sci-fi pantheon of your choice, a new and complex assortment of swear words, don’t use them. No frak, no frelling, no g’day’t, no khest, and bivrip. It’s not a secret code that makes people look at you in wonder. They’ll wonder, all right, about how many blunt objects have struck your cranial unit.

A TV Idea I Won’t Write

Picture this, with me, if you will. A dead body. A suicde note, clearly next to the body. Written in the left hand–but the victim is–okay, WAS–right handed. Enter two detectives from either side of the screen–
Monk on the right, Columbo on the left. Imagine where THAT would go…..

Why I’m Driving Very Carefully Today

Becauce twenty years ago today, far from Sergeant Pepper, Steve Atkinson got drunk, James Ferri got careless, and Tanya and I went to the mall. This led to a
‘68 Sattelite landing on Dad’s Tercel, Dad shattering his arm and his chest, puncturing his lungs, and me breaking a windshield or two with my face, breaking out of my body, and losing my dog. While rationally I know that there is nothing I could’ve done to prevent this from the passenger seat, there’s still a very big part of me that blames myself for what happened to Dad and Tanya.

Just be careful out there today.

Efficient Means Of Communication

Some people are aware that I’ve been trying to get an editing  job for a while.  A few days before Thanksgiving, I saw an ad for a feature film looking for an editor, so I sent my resume with the link to my videos.  Right on my resume is my phone number.  Black Friday I get a response, asking if I was aware that this movie was going to be submitted to festivals and would only make money if it was picked up.  I responded yesterday that, yes, I was aware of that.  Everything’s good.  Hunky dory.

I then get an e-mail wondering why it took me so long to respond.  I replied that between working and the holiday, e-mail was not a very high priority over the last few days.  The response to this was a very terse message which said that between my alleged work schedule and the fact that the whole team needs to be in constant contact, they didn’t want me. 
I don’t find e-mail to be constant contact.  Certainly, when I’m at work and I have Outlook open constanly, well, sure.  If I’m home I’m generally not on-line.  My phone, however, is always on my hip.  Did I receive a call?  No.   If I’m looking to hire someone, I call them.  On the phone.  I don’t e-mail and then wait for a response. 

But I AM brain damaged, so maybe I’m the crazy one.