10:09 AM – Woke at 2:30 AM after a dream I had to write down. Went back to bed, plagued by thoughts that must be written down. Listened to Dio’s Holy Driver record for the first time and loved it. The sun came up. I frantically scribbled words and made devil horns with my fingers in the air, and then I passed out around 5:30. Woke at 9:30, aware my solid sleep schedule finally went kaput. I am now a creature of the dark. A crumbled notebook hunchback of the un-risen sun. Call me Jonah. Call me Lestat. I live in the belly of the night, swallowed by addiction to coffees and words and the fear both will slip down the sink of slothfulness. I drink and write on as my pug-dog sleeps beside me, setting a fine example.
“1985.” – John Rambo, from First Blood: Part II
This morning I walked my pug-dog to the corner creek where he puts it on God’s carpet rather than my hardwood, when I saw Dog The Bounty Hunter walking across the parking lot of my dentist’s office. It wasn’t really Dog, but it might as well have been Dog thirty years ago and with a yellow bandana wrapped around his forehead. He also wore a neon yellow muscle shirt and acid washed jeans. His hair, pulled back in that headband, formed a solid mullet: spiked on the top and sides with a long wavy blond curtain cascading over his right shoulder. He was a California god in the Texas humidity, sculpted in Aqua Net and Coppertone, Reeboks and Guess jeans. I thought of the POW in First Blood: Part II who asks John Rambo what year it is. “1985,” Rambo says. The POW, in silent response, looks forlorn and lost. Admittedly, I stared. I remember 1985, and here it stood before me like Doc Brown come to dodge the Libyans. Dog saw me staring and said, “Hey, bro”. In silent response, I nodded, forlorn and lost. Then he climbed – I shit you not – into a Lamborghini Countach. Shit you not! He tossed his mullet over his neon yellow muscle strapped shoulder and lifted the door to a red LAMBORGHINI COUNTACH, crouching down into the bucket seats. I recognized the Countach because I once owned one as a MicroMachine. Before Alyssa Milano forever sealed the question of my sexuality, the Lamborghini Countach – tacked to my wall in a Car Digest pull-out poster next to Milano in a hockey jersey – sent my blood boiling. This morning I tried to play it off. Tried to pretend I wasn’t staring, as if I was 12 years old at the swimming pool when Kerry Jucas was on lifeguard duty. Then Dog closed the door and drove away, and I stood watching to see if a real Lamborghini Countach on the street looked like my MicroMachine Countach on the coffee table. And then I saw a group of men in the parking lot, looking like the cast of Hot Tub Time Machine, gawking at that red sleek metal strip of sex drive away. And that’s when I realized: we, in our gawking, had given this dude exactly what he wanted. After all, this is small town. A Prius Sport is a flashy car in a town this size. And you know a mothertrucker with a Lamborghini can also afford a Honda Accord or a used Geo Prism to drive to the dentist. A Lamborghini to the dentist office?! I’ve never seen anything like it. I never will. And my pug-dog dropped it right in front of his empty parking space on our way back, completely unmoved and unfazed by such a sign of extravagance and cool. You know, Linda Hamilton could be riding in a car like that. Linda Hamilton, with that Terminator bouffant and those shoulder pads, letting her bangs bounce in the Lamborghini breeze. I should have looked closer when I had the chance.