Filling The Disaster Quota

We’ve all heard the sayings – break a mirror and you’ll have seven years of bad luck, bad things happen in threes. I could prove the latter. I was a disaster child. First, there was the year I was hit by a car and had to have my head stitched back together. (I know, I know, it explains a lot.) The next year was the year I partially severed my right foot, had to have the muscle stitched back together inside. How does a kid top that?

I fell down a waterfall.

Just don’t ask.

Well, it is officially our third vehicle mishap of the year. The Rodeo had a little electrical blowout while Kevin was driving it, and died. The Pontiac met a deer, up close and personal.

And now, the replacement car for the Pontiac is sitting in an impound lot.

I’m beyond analyzing the particulars of the incident. In a three-vehicle collision, Kevin was the only one they took to the hospital. Because he had a suspected back injury, they taped his head to the backboard. And, while on the side of the highway lying on the gurney, it unfortunately had a brake issue and rolled into the ditch with Kevin on it.

I’m not sure what to make of the fact that all of these incidents have occurred while Kevin’s been driving. I’d like to think we’re at three now, that’s the quota, enough already. However, I find myself wondering if it’s my turn next.

Now, if everything goes according to plan, this time tomorrow I’ll be announcing the new Spinetingler Issue. However, all things considered, I’m not holding my breath. I guess we use labels like lucky and unlucky to make sense of why the cosmos kicks some asses more than others.

Meanwhile, I’ll give you a little taste of my current reading, the tantalizing intro to a collection that’s proving to have some very interesting contributions.

~But…if knowing full well what the subject matter of such books is, you are still shocked and disgusted by a little bad language, then frankly you are an idiot, whose sense of values is way overdue for a service. Just how skewed does your worldview have to be, before you find it acceptable to read about death and dismemberment but are offended if those who come close to it swear now and again? Or go home and have a drink to cope with the trauma? Or, heaven forbid, sleep with someone they haven’t known for very long?

~It has, on occasion, been suggested that my books, and those of equally depraved writers, should be issued with warning stickers, like those on the front of many rap albums. You know the sort of thing:

WARNING.

THIS NOVEL ABOUT A SERIES OF BRUTAL SLAYINGS

ALSO CONTAINS CURSE-WORDS AND SCENES

INVOLVING TOILET PARTS.

~I would be perfectly happy with this. As long as the people making these demands are forced to wear stickers themselves. These should be large, square and fluorescent. They should be stuck to their foreheads. They should read:

FUCK ALL IN HERE.

Mark Billingham, EXPLETIVE DELETED, edited by Jen Jordan, 2007 Bleak House Books

Though I think if someone was to slap such a sticker on the front of EXPLETIVE DELETED they might want to point out that the book not only contains scenes involving toilet parts but scenes of a graphic sexual nature. I mean, Olen, Otis… fuck. I don’t mean that they fuck, or… oh, never mind. It’s just that this anthology, originally titled FUCK NOIR, doesn’t need to be self-conscious about the language to produce in the reader the response fucking hell. And I believe my specific reaction to Otis Twelve’s story was, Holy fuck. I didn’t seen that coming. Uh, no pun intended.

Oh, and for the record, Kevin’s going to be fine. And for some reason, I hope Mindy is inspired by the runaway gurney…