OK, so, you know how after you’ve let a friend down in some way, you’ll put off calling them because you feel so ashamed and/or embarrassed about failing them the way you did and how the days slip past until so much time has lapsed that each passing day makes it exponentially more difficult to bring yourself around to picking up the phone and rectifying the matter?
That’s sort of how I’ve been feeling about Cthulhu is my Copilot for the last few weeks. I’ve been wanting to write. Really, I have. And I’ve had quite a few not-altogether-pointless things to say, even with my recent decision to do my best to heed Thumper’s Rule. It’s just that after this long, I feel like a complete tool for becoming such a half-assed… no, wait, make that a quarter-assed blogger. Calling me half-assed would be giving me far too much credit at this point.
But you know how after you finally scare up the courage to make the dreaded call, your friend is always really happy to hear from you and blows off whatever you were so worried about as nothing at all and offers to treat you to lunch next Friday, even though you’ve just rung him at three in the morning so shit-faced your tongue can’t form consonants?
Yeah, well, if I had to guess, I’d say it was the confidence you guys would all be totally cool with my recent lack of activity that finally got me off my arse. Plus, I’m typing this sober and won’t force you to read it in the wee hours of the night, so I have that going for me, as well.
By the way, you owe me lunch.
DG has developed a serious addiction to Indoor Salmon. That’s his favorite flavor of Temptations Treats and he will stop at nothing to acquire them. He actually asked me how he would go about growing his own indoor salmon. I tried to explain “indoor” was in reference to cats and not salmon, he rolled his eyes and said my excuses for refusing to let him keep small pets “have become as tired as they have tiresome”. He’s clearly upped his reading regimen and I now suddenly suspect he knows what happened to my Sherlock Holmes anthology.
As many of you know, one thing I love to do is go to live rock shows. Karin, Panda and I have gone to quite a few but, believe it or not, Zach has never been to a rock concert in his life. This isn’t because we keep him locked in the attic, but because his musical preferences are a bit more nuanced than his sister’s. But he and I both love Heavy Metal – or, more specifically, the sub-genre known as Speed Metal or Shred Metal.
So when I heard Ozzy Osbourne was going to be in town this February and that he was bringing Slash with him, I realized I was going to be flat-ass broke for the next few weeks. There was really no choice in the matter. Zachary needs to see his first rock concert and, as far as I’m concerned, Ozzy is the perfect introduction to such an event. But then, my father taught me how to swim by lobbing me into the deep end, so, you know…
One last thing. Take a look at the crowd of concertgoers depicted in reverse silhouette on the envelope flap above. I’ll admit the unapologetically obvious pattern of repetition probably bothers me more it would than the average person, but the other bothersome thing about this illustration that isn’t as obvious is that it makes no sense. The positioning of the people indicates they are all at the same level and not in bleacher seats, while it’s well-known that the act of holding ones arms aloft for extended periods is decidedly a rock-and-roll activity. Note, however, that some of the people have pom-poms or megaphones in their hands — two items that would get you beat down at a rock show. So, considering how thoroughly Ticketmaster has infected the entertainment world, it’s probably more believable to assume these folks are enjoying cotton candy and sno-cones at a cockfight in Cambodia.