"Peek-a-boo, you are doomed."
The most pleased I ever was with myself was in the year 2000, when I went to see BATTLEFIELD EARTH in theaters for a birthday party. Before the movie, there was a preview for MISSION IMPOSSIBLE 2, and right after that there was a preview for THE PERFECT STORM. (Like many years, 2000 was a shitty year for movies.) Just as THE PERFECT STORM preview was drawing to a close, I leaned over to my friend and whispered "FISHIN' IMPOSSIBLE."
That was the moment I first learned I could dunk, comedically. It was an incredible feeling. (Truth be told, I can't even remember that happened in BATTLEFIELD EARTH. I think John Travolta went to a rave, or something.) The universe, in its benevolent wisdom, had tossed me a perfect alley-oop, and I'd slammed it home with the casual self-confidence of a Brent Barry, or a Dan Majerle, demonstrating that I was worthy. Life was going to be easy from now on--all I had to do was kick back and wait for another perfect alley oop.
Unfortunately, though, it wasn't that easy. Perfect alley-oops are few and far between, it turns out. The universe only gives em to you about once every ten years. In the between time, you have to go back to being a regular schlub. And sometimes when you get an alley-oop, you're unprepared or overexcited, and you screw it up.
Not yesterday, though. Yesterday, I caught another alley-oop and dunked it home. It wasn't a funny joke-dunk (sorry), but I'd argue that it was even better.
I figured out who the Zodiac Killer was!
Aside from the fact that it was National Deviled Eggs Day, it was an evening like any other. I woke up from my afternoon nap at 7:00 PM, bit the wine stained part of my upper lip off, and applied lip balm. I'd been having a bad dream. Not my normal bad dream, where a bird is eating my fingers, but a Halloween-themed dream regarding the Zodiac Killer.
I was alone in the house with a big bowl of candy. There was a knock at the door, and when I opened it I saw a babyfaced man, dressed in a trenchcoat, with an executioner's hood on and a decorative bib bearing the mark of the Zodiac Killer.
Scary costume, right? And what is a grown man doing trick-or-treating all by himself? But it was a dream, after all, so I reached into the bowl to get him some candy. He declined, telling me in an eerily high-pitched voice:
"No. I want big boy stuff."
Weird request, obviously, but I wanted him to go away so I gave him a cigarette. He took it, without thanking me, and lit up--then took a gun out of his coat and shot me!
As I was falling to the ground, my mother showed up out of nowhere, let out a dramatic gasp, and said THE ZODIAC KILLER IS....THE ZODIAC KILLER IS...
And then I woke up! Crazy right?
I felt like I should mention this nightmare in my dream journal, but I didn't want to write the whole thing down, because I'm lazy, so I just wrote
in big creepy block letters. Maybe my dream holds the answer somehow I thought.
And right then, my mother knocked on the door, asking if I wanted to play bananagrams. I did, obviously, but just as I was about to say yeah, sure, of course, it occurred to me that maybe this dream message was an ANAgram !!! We all know how much the Zodiac Killer loved puzzles. So I told my mom to fuck off, I'm busy right now, and cut the block letters out of my dream journal with scissors, for rearranging.
I scrambled and scrambled and scrambled, and after half an hour of furious scrambling, listening to John Carpenter's "White Pulse" on repeat, I had the answer. A message, from the Zodiac Killer, via the realm of nightmares: THE ZODIAC KILLER IS...
Of course, right?!! It was three lil kids stacked on top of each other, in a trench coat! That explains why The Zodiac Killer mysteriously stopped killing (he grew out of it!) and why the spelling in his letters to The Chronicle was so shitty!
Ok, ok. Maybe it wasn't a slam dunk.
Have a good weekend!!!