Loyd Dobler Should Have Stayed Home.

So, I finally got around to the second installment of the Loyd Dobler quadrilogy. I think that's a word.

Loyd Dobler, starting with Better Off Dead (high school), then post-high (Say Anything), Reunion Time (Grosse Point Blank) and to date, the final installment, War Inc.

Incidentally, all great movies. I once got an "incident report" or, as the colloquialism was, a "shot" in prison for having two one-dollar bills. For those that have not seen Better Off Dead, this will not be funny. For the rest, understand that in my locker was a picture of the paperboy from that movie. Ironic, and funny. No, the cash wasn't mine. Got dumped in my locker (which I never locked) while I was at work, during a shakedown. I wish the fucker had used the trash instead, but que sera, sera.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, watched Say Anything. Not a bad flick, but probably not the best choice considering my current plight with the fairer sex, and continued mismanagement of those (normally qualified as sordid by our uptight society) relationships.

What can I say? I'm a professional fuck off. I managed to fuck off about eight years of my life in federal prison, and I'm cursed to another five years of fucking off my life in post-sentence supervision. At least I can have some fun with it. Not that law school sounds like fun for me, but if I make Berkeley, I might get a chance at the war criminal John Yoo, which sounds at least entertaining.

Speaking of entertaining, I haven't yet had a chance to talk about the new shoes I got for Chupecabra. Yeah, purple pedals. Installing the pedals led to a discovery: my bike shop is peopled by folx that didn't have my best interest in mind - the crank, which was only partially sealed by my older brother, was rusted through. Despite three tuneups in six months, somehow the crank never got greased, despite in two occasions a specific call by yours truly for them to do something about the fucking crank.

Needless to say, I'm doing my own maintenance from now on. I'm sure my step-pops, the do-it-yourself maintenance guy, would surely approve, but quite honestly, I'll go with an unnamed friend of mine from prison: if you want good drugs, you should just bite the bullet and make them yourself. That's a paraphrase, by the way, since s/he was a little on the minimalist tip, and had compressed the above to, "If you want it, make it."

Where was I? Oh yeah, Loyd Dobler. Depressing in some respects. I had to ignore 16 candles, of course, as an anomaly. I don't recall his sister being in that film, and at this point, I'm quite sure that if Joan Cusack isn't in the fucking film, it's not a Loyd Dobler film, no matter what the protagonist's name is. Conversely, if she's there, it's one of the series.

Speaking of series, I still have yet to watch the Twin Peaks series I picked up for free from Craigslist. Which reminds me, I haven't gone over my theory of the internet taking us back to classical Greece. To summarize:

Google is the Oracle. Craigslist is the bazaar. I haven't figured out the colisseum just yet, but give me time, this theory is rather new. None of this has anything to do with my title, so I'm getting back to the point now.

If Loyd Dobler had stayed home, we wouldn't have had a crazed assassin on the loose, we wouldn't have an opportunist in some Middle Eastern country, and just for once, he might have had the same girl from one flick to the next - hell, at his high school reunion, he hooked up with someone that was no where in his initial high school experience.

Maybe I'm just a little on the optimistic side - I suppose things could be worse than being a highly paid hitman with a conscience. I wouldn't know.

Next week, I can't figure out if it is polemic time, or another ramble with no particular point except to comment upon something I've seen recently. Until then, my three fans, fare well, and know that somewhere, someone is watching some seriously sappy ish, and getting a good cry out of it. That someone, however, is not me.

Tomorrow, Chupecabra and I ride to meet our destiny in the streets of Manhattan, those sordid streets that have already soaked so much of my blood.