Back in print once again in ebook form by special arrangement through Grove Press, Grab Me, Fab Me, Fork Me, by incendiary wordsmith extraordinaire, Spider Moon. Step on board as he observes, reports, and skewers the cult of celebrity, in a rollicking send up of pop culture in all its mutating forms. Be sure, this author's tools of satiric power are razor sharp. Drop in for a visit, if you dare...
In 1983, while I was recovering from a massive drug overdose, a revelatory cosmic cloud of galactic dust settled upon my sweaty, fevered, brow.
During the time it was happening I must have been hallucinating because I could have sworn I was in a cold, sterile chamber, stretched out supine, high on an aluminum or alternative alloy type gurney, while large eyed, squid faced, bald and bearded creatures from Zaria-5, coil-probed my rectum for the secrets of the universe, breast augmentation, and nuclear weaponry.
When I regained consciousness, a few hours had elapsed and I felt a rejuvenating sense of oneness with the universal power, a high if you will, similar to the very same euphoria I experienced after receiving multiple nitric acid colonic flushes when I was just seven years old.
But in addition to that wonderful flashback feeling, it was in that moment that I was absolutely certain of my destiny, my raison d'être: I had been born to design, manufacture, and market, athletic footwear for matriculating Chihuahuas!
Mother, of course, was overjoyed. Father, who only stopped slurping his 189-ounce soft drink long enough to belch, was, as always, apathetic. And Aunt Sourpuss, who had administered the near lethal drug overdose to begin with, danced and stomped in her inimitable native styling, bouncing on the loose floorboards of our bi-level bungalow, causing a magnitude 5.3 earthquake in downtown Miami like none they had ever seen.
Afterwards, when the scientists, city officials, police squads, and the pope, were done interrogating Aunt Sourpuss as to why she would EVER consider something so stupidly unobservant of human frailty as bouncing on loose floorboards, she kissed and hugged me to near suffocation, then, pounded her fists on my chest in Gregorian Chant rhythms while the assembled crowd clapped along to my coughing and wheezing, my eyes rolling green into my skull, my skin fading a translucent blue.
Mom, ever vigilant for a "Family Photo-Opp," snapped away in a frenzy of motion, Polaroid after Polaroid, logging an impressive array of pictures that to this day, are circulated among the World Press Syndicates as the startling "after- effects" pictures of Toxic Nuclear Exposure.
Which in a way, still irritates me. Do you realize, as I do, that if not for the intrusion of that "other" incident, I might have been "Chernobyl Boy?