That’s the signpost up ahead! Your next stop:

THE DRAMA ZONE!!!

Meet Scribe, a startlingly handsome, brilliant man with a schwantz large enough to dam the mighty Mississip. A normally quiet, assuming gent of the sort that rarely enjoys becoming embroiled in the drama of others. A perfect candidate for melodrama. Because what Scribe doesn’t yet know is that no matter how much he thinks he knows about life, he can still be shocked by the stupidity of his fellow man and woman.

It all begins here:

Friday Night- Three text messages have been sent and still I don’t know if there’s going to be a convention after party tomorrow night. MY publisher keeps writing vagaries back such as, ”Not looking like it.” Whoever heard of such a thing? You mean to tell me in a situation with faded celebrities, aspiring creative types and overall sycophants there’s even a remote possibility that there won’t be an after party??? How disappointing.

No drunken posse to hang with? No drunken conversations about the meaning of life and seeing through the veneer of so-called civilization? No hoochies in costumes and bizarre micro-mini’s to ogle? That last one was particularly painful but whatever…when life kicks you in the groin, it usually makes sure it’s wearing cleats. At least I get to hang out at the convention tomorrow.

Saturday- Due to issues with my car (soon to be replaced, don’t you worry ‘bout me!) one of my colleagues offered to pick me up so he and I can ride out to the convention together. I find myself slightly reluctant to go, possibly because I just paid the mortgage last night & as the old joke goes, am so broke I can’t even pay attention. Besides, I have a horrible sinus headache I need to kick before I go anywhere.

My fellow writer, Bob, calls at around 10:00am to see what time I want to go there. We agree on one o’clock, since we have both received reports that it is rather dead. That gives me time to down two Excedrin and sleep off this sinus headache that is now threatening to become a migraine. At 10:30 my publisher calls to tell me Bob and I would be wasting our time and not to bother coming up. Slightly relieved, I pass out on the couch surrounded by dogs…one sleeping on my chest, the other on the floor next to me.

EFB text messages me to see what is going on with the convention and I let her know my services are no longer required. She axes about the after party & I let her know I am still getting the same vague responses. By 11:30 my headache has faded to a point where I am able to stand upright and glance at direct sunlight, so I decide to warsh me arse and re-join the world. I accomplishes this by going to McDonald's’s, coming home and watching the episode of “South Park” where Satan throws his Super Sweet Sixteen Birthday party. Hey, I said rejoined the WORLD, I didn’t specify which one!

Anyway, some time around noon, Bob calls back and says he wants to go to the convention for a couple hours anyway and asks me if I’m game. I’ve already masturbated to midget porn twice, so I agree to accompany him. As we get off the phone, he informs me he is going to let the publisher know. Ten minutes later my phone rings again. This time it’s my publisher, who advises me it’s a waste of time for us to show up and there are no free passes available. I call Bob back and he eloquently says, “Screw it.”

He agrees with my earlier comment that these conventions keep jacking up the admission price plus choose places that charge for parking and then you have to pay for everything you want to do once you’re inside. But I still don’t know about that Gooddam after party! I wanna see Erik Estrada!!! And Billy Dee Williams!!! And that guy with the huge face that gets all ornery and creepy when he drinks! What’s his name? Bea Arthur?

Finally, the publisher sends me a text message saying there will no after party. This disappoints EFB as well, who had a ball last year and, truthfully, was a lot of fun. Her networking and PR skills also proved invaluable. But so much for all that.

The rest of the day is spent in some sort of restless state. When EFB comes home, it just gets worse as she alternately whines about having nothing to do and goes on and on about how she doesn’t really feel like doing anything. Eventually it is decided that we are restless because our minds were all set on going to the supposed after party . Then EFB decides to text message my publisher in a last-ditch effort to see what’s crackin’ and lo and behold…FUCKING AFTER PARTY!!!


So now EFB and I have to rush around like lunatics getting dressed for this thing and jumping in the car to get there by 9:30, the magical time provided by my publisher. We make good time, considering it was 8:45 when she told us this, and find ourselves getting off at the Novi exit by 9:30. That’s when EFB gets a text message from my publisher saying, “Not coming tonight. Sorry.”

EXCUSE ME??? I text her back since EFB is driving to find out if anybody else is coming. The terse “I don’t know” is simply unacceptable. So I text her again asking who we are supposed to meet if she’s not going to be there. Her reply is not unexpected considering I just mentioned that I think there was some kind fight. It says, "I've some shit goin down, I'm sorry."

EFB wonders aloud if we should go to the party now. "Fuck yeah!" I say. "We didn't drive all the way here to turn around and go home. I need to know what's happening."

There are three principals involved here. I will give them nicknames to protect their identities and keep me from having to kick their asses later. You've already met publisher. We'll call publisher's business partner Bill and the head of the graphic illustration company Joe.

When we arrive and see that this is not the "small" get-together publisher thought it would be, we are baffled by the wasted opportunity. I call Bill and he speaks in non-specifics about bad stuff happening at publisher's house and how he is still there. According to him, publisher was supposed to meet us at the party. What he doesn't know is that publisher called crying hysterically and left a voicemail message on EFB's phone about what assholes Bill and Joe are.

Bill has a crush on EFB, so I tell her to use that to get him to bring his whiny ass up here and tell us what the blue fuck is going on! It works as I knew it would and eventually Bill shows up and joins us at our table in the bar & grill.

It is from there, of course, that the rest of the tale unfolds.

To Be Continued~




Right now!

Bill unloads about how he and Joe were discussing profit margins and disagreeing vehemently. Apparently the printer they were using to get their product out "fucked them over" as Bill so casually put it. In his opinion, they needed to find a more reliable printer even if the cost was higher. He insisted that there would still be profit, it would just be reduced. More important, he reasoned, to get the product out than to nickle & dime every-goddam-thing.

Joe disagreed and the argument began. Publisher's soon-to-be estranged husband took Bill's side, making things worse considering Joe is a short Irish guy with a temper and a huge ego. Eventually, he called Bill a "dumb-fuck," which shocked Bill to the point where he repeated it a few times and widened his hands. Joe took this as a challenge and started yelling, "You wanna fight me? HUH? You wanna fight me!?"

"I've never been in a fight in my life," Bill said to us.

Not hard to believe. He is a well-mannered, easy-going guy with a mild creepiness factor.

Apparently the fighting got so bad that when publisher came downstairs from getting ready for the party, a screaming match ensued and she wound up grabbing Joe by the back of his neck and tossing him on his ass out of her house. I'm not sure what her husband was doing at this point, but I like to think she moved so fast he didn't have a chance to react. Uh-huh.

At this point, publisher must have stormed out of the house in the manner of a consummate professional and started driving to meet us, at which point her breakdown caused her to change her plans.

At this point I have forgotten all about running into EFB's self-promoting martial arts instructor and underground filmmaker. I've forgotten all about Erik Estrada strolling by and lingering when he saw EFB, thereby reinforcing the "stereotype" that Mexican men are obsessed with fair-skinned, blond white women. I've forgotten everything because now I am wondering what the fuck I have involved myself in. These are supposed to be business partners? I worked in a place where the owners of the business fought all the time and they were cool right afterwards. Only one of these people has the maturity and good sense to even discuss it on an adult level and he is fighting off a nervous breakdown because of this next part:

"My only concern is my relationship with publisher. I mean, you guys probably know...I...I really love her a lot. She's my best friend in the world and I..." tears fill his eyes and he looks away.

Jesus H. Tapdancing Christ on a unicorn!!! He's in love with her now? What the fuck? He's my age and she's at least 12 years his senior and a married mom!!! Yes she talks of an eventual divorce, but what the fuck!?

Now I'm holding in my anger at this complete and total breakdown of any good sense. These people can't stop fighting like little bitches long enough to take care of business. They ought to sign over all daily operations to me and EFB! We can actually fight while getting shit accomplished. Did I just wish that on myself??? How bad are things!?

It turns out Joe is at the party and has yet to speak to Bill at all. Did I mention Bill and publisher finance his entire operation and he has the nerve to argue profit with them? Arrogant son of a bitch should be drinking their juices!

So Joe emerges from a sea of people, sees us and proceeds to ignore us...me included! So now he not only isn't making things right with his benefactor, he is also ignoring the talent!? That's the last straw!

We retire to the room with all the free food so I can salvage the night with a slice of blue Stormtrooper cake and that's when Joe makes his move by extending the hand of forgiveness. But Bill ain't havin' it. He takes an ass-kicking posture and gives him the "You wanna do this right now?" hand motions, finally acting like a goddam Italian. EFB slips away, wisely refusing to get involved and that's when the olive branch is accepted. Bill, always a class act, informs us Joe wants to talk and excuses himself for the night. We bid him adieu, chat up one of the convention organizers and get his card, and leave the two of them in a corner talking.

There actually is more to this story but I am too pissed to write more yet~