Apology Corner

Wm. Moses has a knack for conjuring enemies out of the ether. It's our habit to seize on minor offenses, then spew vitriolic hate speech until we feel better. Most of the time the ass-handing is justified and we're all too happy to dish out a written crotch-shot to the emotional testes, but it tends to get out of hand. It's with this acknowlegement that I issue the following apology:

Pot Zombies, I'm sorry.

About two months ago, Scott enabled the comments feature common to all blogs on Blogspot. Hiding under my "Pot Zombies" review since February was a short remark from someone affiliated with the movie. He had some choice things to say and went so far as to suggest we stole their idea.

Scott and I were ecstatic. The prospect of getting into a turf dispute with another dope-come-ghoul movie was irresistible. A public feud could mobilize the flagging Wm. Moses label and raise the profile of both movies. This would be akin to Armageddon getting into a scrapper with Deep Impact, or Infamous having a knife fight with Capote.

It seemed especially tantalizing as Chris was just moving to town and we would be at our most powerful, like when the Constructicons combined to form Devastator.

So I shot off a casual email to this guy simply saying "Are you serious?" hoping it would bait the whole PZ team into a cat fight. I didn't hear from him, but I did get a couple notes from Justin Powers, director, editor and co-writer of "Pot Zombies".

In paraphrase, the emails sought to distance the real players from the commentator and made it known that this guy barely had anything to do with the film. Turned out he's some goon brought in for sound mixing in the eleventh hour.

Justin expressed dismay that such a comment was floating around cyberspace and requested it be taken down, thinking it a poor reflection on Fringe Media. The overall thrust of his emails were friendly and informative, and I suddenly felt remorse for panning his abilities, especially in light of certain facts. Below I'll attempt to redress some misinformation that made it into the review.

I misreported the budget as being around $10,000, a figure extracted from an article by Brian Abrams. My advice: Never put your trust in the internet. Not for reliable data, not for "secure" credit card purchases, and certainly not for arranging anonymous meth-fueled orgies. I'd even discourage the reader from citing this blog or even the neutral Killer Weed website as sources of factual info, especially if making, say, a case for invading Iran.

Anyway, Justin said the real budget was somewhere around $1000. Boy, do I feel like a putz. Watching it I kept wondering where they'd spent the money. Was it the cool scene where they strung a guy up by hooks in his back? Was it for Lloyd Kaufman's towncar? Was it the impressive soundtrack? Or was it intercutting to the hot lesbian chicas going Hometown Buffet on each other?

Knowing the real budget almost turns PZ into a stellar achievement, particularly as it's Justin's first film. He clearly had to wrangle a lot of resources and call in a few favors, maybe scratch a few backs. And that's a talent unto itself, the networking, the canvasing, the begging, the sweet-talking and making nice, the game.

Couple other things to address. My mistake for claiming there were no credits. Apparently my download had the closing credits sheered off for space sake. I'm told they're laid over some neat behind the scenes footage of Rob Swarthout actually getting pierced through the back by the aforementioned hooks.

I also regret that the first few lines of my IMDb review became the defacto two-line for PZ on a few torrent sites. However, no one in my camp had anything to do with actually sharing their movie, as had been charged.

We can barely cope with our own workload.

Matt

Let the Circle Be Unbroken

Chris Merritt, director of “Killer Weed 2,” is currently driving the final leg of a 2,000-mile journey to the West Coast where he’ll live with Scott and me at the new Wm. Moses Compound in North Hollywood.

Chris’ move to California came as something of a surprise to me since he’d long derided the idea and set his long term sites on Australia. Don’t ask me why. I myself would prefer even the filthiest, sketchiest urine-stenched alley of delusion-addled dream-shredding la-la land over any given poison pocket in sweaty Australia.

But the option remains. Should Chris later feel a void that can only be filled by hot naked Abo-dancing I’d encourage him to go for it. For now, he belongs to me.

We haven’t lived in the same city for exactly three years. We left off on an up-tick, wrapping production on KW1 just as I scooted out of T-Town. Chris went into post-production with editor Will Wallace (Conspiracy Films) and I was side-lined for a good while, left to twiddle my thumbs in abject impotence.

Two years later, after intense cross-country collaboration on KW2, editor/DP Scott joined me in L.A., for once making Chris the odd man out. He was suddenly the one relying on scattered phone reports and hasty emails for updates.

Scott and I are eager to receive our old partner and friend, hoping to pad his landing with a cushion of living arrangements, eating arrangements, paying-job arrangements, floral and funeral arrangements, and Elgar’s Symphony No. 2 with a lovely arrangement by Mansel Thomas.

Tonight, neighborhood of 10 pm Pacific Time, Chris arrives and for the first time ever, he, Scott and I will be thrust together under one roof for a hilarious antic-laden five-month run. If this were a sitcom, Chris would be the guy tossed in mid-season to add a certain "Urkel" factor.

Matt

The Horror. Part I

Fuck DVDs.

One of the biggest pains in my ass at work is making these fucking things. Between all the variables that go into making them and the varying degrees of compatability between DVD players it’s almost enough to make you yearn for the days of VHS. I might’ve gotten carried away there but you get the idea. It’s absurd to the point that different brands of DVD-Rs can and will fuck you if you’re not careful.

I can deal with this shit when I’m at work. What I can’t stomach is that level of unreliability when it comes to a screening master for the premiere of our two year labor of love in front of 250 of our most favorite-ish people.

The 48 hours approaching the premiere were destined to test my nerves.

Wednesday, May 3th, 2006. K-Day -1. It’s around 6pm and Matt and I locked the screening cut for the premiere. We were done. We had plans to come back and clean up a thing or two a few months down the line for a proper DVD release, but as far as the premiere was concerned we’d gutted our last ghoul. We sent the film to the compression software for processing so we could burn it to DVD and rushed out for the now infamous (and forgiven) confrontation with musician pal Joe Evans. We got back, feeling like goons. Joe was so suspicious of us I was starting to suspect myself of being out to fuck me over. No time to think. Compression complete. Burn DVD.

Ten minutes later a DVD pops outta the G5. We test it out in Vazda’s playstation. Nothing.

An aside: I know it took precisely ten minutes for the DVD to burn because Matt was now pacing like an addict behind me. Season 2 of Lost was winding down and if we didn’t book it outta Birmingham like twenty minutes ago we were gonna miss that night’s episode. Chris and Karolyn were waiting for us back at her pad. Fuck.

Back to the non-functioning DVD. Pulses are pounding. Curses hurled. I’d played it safe all the way. Done everything by the book. Fuck the playstation, I said. Let’s try it in a regular DVD player. Matt and I marched down the hall to the conference room and held our breaths as the disc began to whir and chirp in the player. Then, zang! Credits and music. It was Nick Johns and it was the sweetest sound I’d heard since someone stole my copy of Curtis Mayfield’s greatest hits. Satisfied, we packed our things in a rush and flew outta there at full sprint.

I beat on my stepmom’s Camry (long story) like it was the General Lee. It was raining and rush hour in Birmingham and we had twenty-five minutes to get to Tuscaloosa before Lost came on. We beat the storm right outside of town and I was determined to stay ahead of it. We raced at speeds of up to 100 mph and in the end made it from Mountain Brook to Northport in 35 minutes. Matt only missed the first ten minutes of Lost.

I wasn’t yet a Lost fanatic at that time. But after watching a few minutes with Matt, Chris, and Karolyn, I knew it was something I had to check out. These guys were mainlining this stuff. It must be good. But I had no idea what was going on. I slipped out front to sip a beer, stretch out in the bed of Chris’ truck, and relax. I was exhausted, but couldn’t help but feel a sense of triumph in having put the final pre-premiere nail in the KW2 coffin.

This sweet little taste of victory wasn’t fated to last. After Lost ended, we decided to pop in KW2. The DVD played OK in Turner’s playstation for about ten minutes and then started skipping like Judy Garland on Exctasy. Godamnit.

We ran through a variety of scenarios and backup plans. I would have to return to Birmingham the following day (the day of the premiere, mind you) alone and burn more DVDs as well as a mini-dv master that could be played with my camera if all else failed.

Fuck me. Less than 24 hours until the premiere and we had no screening master. Furthermore, I had no assurances that the DVDs I burned the following day would be any different, given I had no way of isolating the problem to begin with. I drown the butterflies in my stomach in domestic beer and put it outta my head. Chris and I hit up a party later on, but instead of basking in the pre-premiere buzz as usual, the hype began to make me nervous. Everyone we knew was chomping at the bit to see our baby, and it all came down to a tiny plastic disc and a piece of consumer-grade electronics. If I hadn't been dog tired and Boris Yeltsin level drunk I wouldn't have slept a wink that night. As it happened, I slept like a baby.

Good thing. Becuause the events of the day were destined to pale in comparison to what I experienced the day of the premiere. I was gonna need all the rest I could get.

To be continued...

Enter Nega-Duck

"In the end, there can only be one." -- Highlander

It's come to my attention that there's another Matt Stewart on the loose. And he blogs.

Click here for a full account of his recent steak dinner at Outback.

Not surprisingly, Bizarro Matt Stewart's posts are like a lot of live-journals out there. Random, mundane entries about work, friends and family. Unpolished anecdotes chronicling every fascinating detail of his day. Long meandering tales of minor non-adventures, like eating, sleeping and breathing.

Click here to learn how he was forced to replace his utility knife.

The aggravating factor is that this human echo provides zero context within any given entry as to who his friends are or why we should give a toss.

I know what goes on. I'm aware that many blogs have an intimate readership and that this is more of a diary than anything, but diaries are lame. (Apologies to Anne Frank)

Click here for "Matt's" unbridled exuberance over the latest Star Wars novel.

I know I can be cruel. I can be petty, belligerent and begrudging. And the plain truth is, this other Matt Stewart didn't do anything to me. He actually seems like a nice guy. The only cause for skewering him is that he shares my name and could easily ruin it.

Click here to read about the day he updated his website.

There's another possibility I haven't overlooked. Multiverse theory holds that everyone has an opposite self, with infintessimal variations there-between. Granted, Bizarro Matt Stewart looks nothing like me, but if you squint your eyes after gouging them out with an icepick you can kinda see it.

If this is true, if Bizarro Matt Stewart is indeed my counterpart on an alternate earth, then one of two things has occurred. Either:

A) We're caught in some kind of trans-dimensional blognet vortex meant to unite the two Matt Stewarts for the purpose of doing good (perhaps defeating another Matt Stewart?)
or...
B) This other Matt Stewart has travelled from his dimension to ours intent on killing and replacing the Matt Stewart you know and love. And I just can't have that.

Consider yourself warned, other me.

truly,
Matt

La Vita è Abominabile

I'm left with little to say. Virtually no work has taken place on KW2 over the past month and a half. A lot of outstanding business remains undone. This may come as a surprise since I spent my last post grousing about having nothing to do now that the movie is "finished".

It is finished as far as I'm concerned. It's Scott who bears the rest on his shoulders. Time was so tight leading up to the premiere that a few shortcuts were taken in post-production. He's got a number of things to tidy up, all of which seems super technical, possibly involving advanced telekinesis. I've said it before and I'll say it again, Scott's methods are a mystery to me, and trying to understand them is akin to figuring out a way to poop without peeing.

In any case, nothing's getting done. Scott's waiting on an external hard drive (containing all our media) to be shipped out from Birmingham where the premiere version was cut. Why the hold-up? Who knows. Scott keeps saying that it's "in the mail," but it's been long enough to where I'm wondering if he and Chris Merritt haven't shanghaied my movie and sold it to the godless Chinese (admitted film pirates and known zombie enthusiasts).

Sigh. I'm forced to occupy myself with the triviality of day-to-day life. Those who know me will tell you: I hate life.

And, for once, I'm not joking. I've got a few typical complaints like, "Life isn't fair," "Life's a bitch" and so on, but there's one thing I never say: "Life is too short."

I view life as an impediment to accomplishment. I often wonder how many zombie films I could produce if somehow I were to evolve beyond the need for food and sleep. I barely eat as it is, but if I can kick this pesky rest requirement I might someday rule the world. And you know what that means. Global nudity.

Then there's the administrative and maintenance aspects of life. I seem wholly incapable of paying bills until they're a minimum of one day past due. I pay no real attention to my health, preferring instead to let an apparent intestinal disorder go unchecked. My teeth, feet, and chest hurt, in that order. I can't be counted on to clean house, or do dishes, or wash my car, or get the oil changed, or keep non-industry appointments. Life is an inconvenience to talent, but there's simply no way to divide the two.

The completion of KW2 left a vacuum for sure. I whiled away the boredom for a couple weeks by inventing KW2-related work like Photoshopping a press kit and closing out the deliverables notebook. I helped crank out our first few festival entries. That kept me busy for ten minutes, then it was downhill again as I couldn't conjure up any more bullshit activities.

Later, a new reality would dawn: I might have to get a job. After spending months on the dole and essentially doing what I love to do, there's not a snowball's chance in Uruguay that I'll ever again buckle down for a longterm nine-to-five gig.

I got some freelance work as an illustrator for an upstart fashion designer, drawing up designs for her new line of lingerie. I've never worn lingerie (sober), so I'm not really wise to what's sexy and what's not. I do know colors. I was given a specific idea of what was wanted, then took over from there.

Pictured to the right is one such ensemble. Pretty hot. Now imagine it on a much better looking chick. Even hotter.

But before, during and after this, I was doing something I hadn't done in years. I was writing a feature-length screenplay. A horror film.

I spent three weeks in June vomiting out a rough draft, after which I brought in my five-year writing partner Allan McLeod for revisions. A brilliant guy all around, Allan corrected me on several loose areas and helped salvage an admittedly thin first act...

Interested parties are encouraged to invest in adult diapers.

Life sucks,
Matt

Festivals

We just finished our first round of festival entries, and preparations are underway for a DVD release. We're going all criterion on your asses and releasing a special double disk set that will contain not only KW2, but KW1 as well and a fuckton of extras.

Shriekfest, Sidewalk, and Woodstock were our first three festival entries... keep your fingers crossed.

Also, peep the KW2 premiere photo gallery here.

The Bad and the Beautiful

Feeling very low now. "Killer Weed" is gone. I'm alone.

One would think that after two years of slaving away, with all but the DVD release behind us, I might be happy. I am not. I've lost a huge part of what defined me, and as KW fast becomes a memory I find myself scraping at the crumbs.

Day-dreaming I drift to that place we-swore-we'd-not-go, to that parallel world where "Killer Weed 3" is more than mere abstract impossibility...

RIDICULOUS PLOT IDEAS FOR "KILLER WEED 3"

• "Killer Weed: Three's Company" - 30 years after the events of KW1 and 10 years after the events of KW2, old 8-Toe'd Joe and his son Luke have settled down in rural America, seemingly far from the massacre in Vil City. But the shenanigans begin anew with the arrival of an elderly 8-Toe'd Joe, having traveled back in time to warn his younger self and son about an impending doobie drought. And guess what he's brought with him...

• "KW3: Beyond Thunder-Bong" - 8-Toe'd Joe is unfrozen in a post-apocalyptic future where the only tradeable currency is movable type. 8-Toes founds a society based on zombie equality.

• "KW3: Back to the Past and Back" - Trapped 20 years in the past and visibly dissolving due to a divergence in space/time, Pope must ensure his parents' coupling while retrieving an almanac from the future elderly 8-Toe'd Joe while incidentally inventing rock-n-roll.
  

• "KW3: Bride of 8-Toe'd Joe" - 8-Toes decides Luke needs a mother-figure; besides which, he's horny. So 8-Toes seeks love the old fashioned way: he infects his bride-to-be with trace amounts of killer weed, enough to make her quasi-ghoul same as him. When an out of control Bride makes a meal out of Luke's girlfriend, it's go-time on Mommy Dearest.

• "KW3: Dream Warriors" - Zoey and Luke find themselves haunted by dreams of 8-Toe'd Joe, and don't find peace until they team up with Chloe from KW1, whereupon they confront 8-Toes in the dream world using special dream powers!

• "KW3: The Shirleys" - Half-siblings Zoey and Luke track down their common parent, their mom, and reunite her with 8-Toe'd Joe. The old love birds remarry, and all four become a sensation when MTV makes it into a reality show.

• "KW3: Dial Z for Zombie" - 8-Toes has become a smash success with his new line of exercise videos, featuring zombies doing rigorous cardio-glandular workouts. When a member of his trusted ghoul-troupe gets murdered he has to single out the killer in a thrilling whodunnit!

• "KW3: Escape From the Planet of the Zombies" - Pope's spacecraft crashes down on a planet run by intelligent zombies. They try him in a kangaroo court as a threat to their established lore, but Pope escapes to the Forbidden Zone, er, uh, Frowned-Upon Region, with the help of two sympathetic, ahem, zombies.

Scott and I often throw these around for "fun," but in a very real way we're torturing ourselves.

Matt

Enemies of Wm. Moses Roundup

Good needs evil, and so do heroes need enemies. Known precedents:

*Superman vs. Solomon Grundy
*G.I. Joe vs. Cobra
*Autobots vs. Decepticons
*Scrooge McDuck vs. The Beagle Boys
*Richard Kimble vs. The One-Armed Man
*The Irish vs. The English
*Swamp Thing vs. Dr. Arcane
*Bayside vs. Valley High
*Captain Kirk vs. all Klingons everywhere
*Smurfs vs. Gargamel
*Holden Caufield vs. the whole miserable world

Recently, a couple of my outstanding feuds saw closure (of sorts). Recollections from the week of the premiere:

5-04/ JEREMIAH JONES ATONES

Due to DVD compatibility issues, Chris and Drew felt it prudent to go to the Jupiter and pre-screen the film just hours before showtime. Doing so meant dealing with Jeremiah Jones, our venue contact and pathological bullshitter. Given my history with the guy, I decided not to go.

They watched the whole movie with Jones, and for the first time he finally seemed to get it. I'd had no luck explaining our position of strength to Jones over the phone in February. He was too busy inventing fees and spinning rhetorical gems like "We got Kenny Chesney! Do you know who that is?"

Per Chris, there was no trace of this side of Jeremiah Jones as they quality-checked just hours before the premiere. Gone was the shrewd sad sack who'd begrudgingly changed the marquee the day before. This Jeremiah enjoyed and appreciated KW2, and showed some regret for his earlier misapprehension.

Hours and hours later, as the bands played, Chris joined Jeremiah upstairs to settle the door. The count was incredible; 220 at $5 a head. Adjusting for real costs, with a cut to the bands, Scott, Chris and I walked away with a paltry pile of money. Like, enough to buy two shares of Imclone.

Jones, luckily, made bank at the bar, and considering the lushes in attendance, can't say I'm surprised. Can't say I'm unhappy either. I wanted Jones to make as much money possible, to walk away in a different tax bracket. My final comeuppance would be to have him eat his words... while swimming naked in a pool of cash.

05-03/ LO, APOLLO STRUMMED HIS LYRE & SHAT FORTH JOE EVANS

I did not expect to be dealing with this. Some time ago I issued art releases to Chris who in turn had them signed by all contributing musicians. All save one. Joe Evans collaborated with Chris Johnson and five others to produce some pretty diverse tracks, some to set themes. Scott used some of these fairly prominently in the premiere cut.

Chris may have thrust the release form on Joe somewhat late in the game, and indeed, scattered language about perpetuity was understandably troubling. But the fuss Joe made about it merely underscored the spate of troubles we'd had with him from the start. He had a ridiculous sense of entitlement, an inflated sense of importance, like he was the second coming of Gershwin or something.

In repeat phone conversations, I kept hearing the same line about how he'd worked hard and spent so many hours on the music, and thought he was owed something. What that something was never became clear as he continually side-stepped the matter. I had to chase him around within his deluded line of reasoning and repeatedly take control of the conversation just to find out what the hell he wanted.

At one point between calls, I did a thorough break down of all contributing parties and determined that, among 25 musicians, he'd make about twenty bucks a year from now.

"I don't care about that," he said later.

"Then what are we talking about? Listen, we're about to lay off credits, and I need to know whether or not to write you off."

He laughed at me openly, mockingly.

"What's so funny?"

I spoke candidly of our nuclear option, which was to remove any trace of his music altogether, and he stumbled on that. This was as heated as it ever got; I had to continually beat back the urge to flay him with insults; to lash this fool within an inch of crying. If I'd had my druthers I'd've countered the stream of garbage flowing from his mouth with fun facts like:

"No, you didn't submit the music on time; you did however submit a string of bizarre excuses like, say, your father taking you hostage that one time. No, Chris never promised you outrageous rewards like 400 remastered CDs. Chris is not Santa Claus. No, you are not the only artist to score specifically for the film; Metronome Mike could rhyme rings around you with only an egg shaker and a dinner triangle."

Ah, but this was a time for diplomacy. Wednesday, while compressing KW2 at Vazda, Scott and I drove to Joe's house for a summit. There we met Joe in person, flanked by his musician friend Justin, who wore a T-shirt reading "Talk is Cheap Until You Hire a Lawyer". Fortunately I didn't notice 'til Scott told me later; otherwise I might have flown into a frenzy right there, lightning shooting forth from my eyes and blazing the place up like the Chicago Fire (which I also started).

We sat down to discuss the release, and Scott and I made a good foil to Joe and Justin. They made known their concerns, all of which were pretty reasonable. After a half-hour spent reading and rereading, we came to an understanding and got the signature and it was all very pleasant. But my eyes were always on the prize; as soon as pen hit paper I maneuvered the release into my pocket. My first instinct was to shove it right down my pants for safe keeping with my other jewels.

Joe actually made the premiere, too. Scott neglected to tell him that we'd excised quite a bit of his stuff already. The only thing heard from him (besides the requisite "good job" to Scott and myself) was when he approached Chris Merritt backstage and insisted that his name be separated from Chris Johnson's in the credits.

Chris sighed. "Joe. Please. Can we just enjoy this?"

Maybe Chris was right. Maybe instead of stewing over feuds past, it's time to turn the chapter on my anger. Live and let live. In other words, Jeremiah and Joe, I forgive you. I forgive you.Matt

Video: The Real 8-Toe'd Joe

Sadly the real 8-Toe'd Joe could not make the premiere; John Shirley had an unfortunate masonry-related conflict in Louisiana and decided to chase the money.

To learn more about John (who, in reality, lost two toes not to a zombie but to a lawnmower), click on the image for video.

Matt

Escape From ATL! - A Real-Life Layover Told in Fabulous Present Tense!

It's just turned 9 pm Eastern as I step off flight 1512 from Birmingham. This is Atlanta; my connector to LAX is due to depart exactly five minutes ago. I rush through Concourse B and realize I have a full four concourses to go before reaching my plane. I'm not worried. The Flight number for L.A. is 420. Seriously. I am not worried...

9:10 pm - GATE E27. Flight 420 taxies off the runway. I'm worried. A Delta employee tells me that's the last L.A. flight and to return to the ticket counter for rescheduling. All this because of supposed inclement weather. I'm looking out windows and recalling touchdown on 1512; there's no inclement weather! The pilot had explained this away as an FAA imposition; that it's the government overreacting and that Chicken Little apparently runs the show.

Great. Another reason to hate the government. First, a preemptive strike on Iraq, and now this.

9:41 pm - Navigating the labrynth back to the ticket counters takes an eternity, and no one seems to understand the concept of an escalator. It's not a theme park attraction. You don't climb on and ride while mechanized cherubs sing songs of global unity. You don't mount a space pod and dodge ray guns shot by the likes of Buzz Lightyear. There are no ticket-tables, no splash-downs, no height requirements and hence there should be no gawkers standing idle in my way staring at the walls like this is a frickin' haunted hay-ride. Move, lady!

10:00 - DELTA TICKET COUNTER/SW TEMINAL. I explain my situation to the helpless, uncaring screw at the check-in and it's clear she could give a toss.








"Next flight's at 8:30 tomorrow morning."

"Through no fault of my own, I'm trapped in a strange town with little money and no way home. What's Delta going to do about it?"

"We offer an inconvenience rate at the nearest Days Inn. Forty-five dollars."

"Forty-five dollars! Seems like zero dollars is a more appropriate figure. Hell, you should be paying me to grace the dump."

"That's the discount option, sir."

Can you believe this?

10:30 pm - HOULIHAN'S BAR. Last call. I say stuff Delta Airlines and stuff their fun-time buddies at the Day's Inn. I'm taking my $45 to the bar.I'm determined to stay at the airport, and a little Dutch courage should seal the deal. I've slept on cement floors, in closets, on benches, even standing against a wall, but never in an airport. But I'd rather suck down a quick mixer and pass out here than put more money into a room. The KW2 premiere trip (from which I'm returning) already bled me dry between travel costs and merchandising efforts. Damned if I'll give Day's Inn the satisfaction.

11:40 - ATRIUM. All the good spots are taken. I take an empty bench and begin writing this. My only pen pretends to be out of ink, taunting me. Write, damn you! I don't own any I-Pods, no discman to speak of; barring an unlikely flashback, writing this is all I've got.

11:55 - One last COFFEE FROM SEATTLE'S BEST. I see a pen dangling off the register. How to do this... Fortunately a toddler nearby starts screaming for no reason. Heads turn, and with no one looking, I make my move, snatching up the pen along with a napkin, making the theft at least half-legal. The perfect half-crime. My only regret is not causing the toddler to cry in the first place. Bonus points.

12:24 - MEN'S RESTROOM. Stinks in here. I have a serious phobia about bringing nonessential items into a public bathroom, things like luggage. Nonetheless, it's either this or risk my bag being detonated by the TSA.

No way my suitcase is touching this floor. I drag a "Caution: Wet Floor" cone into a stall, drawing looks, then balance my case atop it and against the wall. Set.

Takes me three tries to get a sanitary cover to come out in one piece. I sit down and try desperately to clog up the toilet with two days worth of bowel remnants, sort of a silent-but-deadly protest. No such luck. It all flushes down, automatically of course, so I don't even have the luxury of admiring my work. Makes me long for the days when flushing was optional. As if I could feel more powerless.

12:37 am - ATRIUM. Return here only to find my spot usurped by a fellow traveller. he's already asleep, so I move on instead of challenging him to a duel. And it seems every other cushy spot's accounted for. Blast it. I wander a bit and settle on a less glamorous seat beside a National Guardsman headed to Ontario. Let's hope he stays there.

1:10 am - BEDTIME. Very tired. I latch my bag handle to my wrist via elastic tags and start to drift off, buoyed only by the thought of the clasp-button pocket protecting my wallet....

1:25 am or so - SLEEP... Mysterious dreams of a man with eight toes....

2:30-ish - AWAKE to the sound of floor buffing. This has actually been going on for several hours, aggrevating the weary around me. I'm not kidding; this one guy is buffing the ever-living shit out of these floors, and we're paying the price in hours slept.

2:45 am - Got to pee. As soon as I rise at least two or three lurkers seem to spring from nowhere, anxious to get my chair. A guy asks:

"You still using that?"

"Yeah, actually, I'm just going to the can."

Well I get back and surprise, surprise, what looks to be the very same guy is now sleeping in my chair. Son of a bitch!

What happened to the Honor System! I contemplate tumping him over where he lies, then remember where I am. On top of which, I'm slowly noticing what looks like a pair of breasts on the dude. Either, I've got the wrong guy or I'm this close trading blows with a pre-op transvestite. I let it go.

2:45 - WENDY'S. I'm looking over the menu and it's all garbage. Seeing the chili pot has me speculating whether a severed human finger might help the taste, but that's not funny. It's clear I'm delirious.

I walk away with a side salad and a water, and for about five minutes this salad is my new best friend.

2:52 am - Looks like I've got to find a new best friend. And I am done with this USA Today; it's technically USA Yesterday by this point, and the articles are about as informative as a third grader's account of his day at the aquarium. If USA Today were to cover such a hypothetical field trip, you'd walk away knowing only that an aquarium holds fish and that refreshments were served.

3:22 am - ATRIUM. Aha! After attempting a nap on a cold, sticky marble bench, I see that some fool's left two cushy chairs vacant, and I'm all over it. Sucker. The floor buffer's still buzzing somewhere, but I'm so tired it may not matter.


3:40 am - It matters. By my rights, I'm going to scuff the f†®k out of these floors in the morning. Part of me wants to get up and do it right now, to go create some kind of floor-buffing emergency somewhere down-terminal where the noise won't carry. Crap, though. I'd lose my chairs.

4-ish - SLEEP...

5:30 am - AWAKE to the rap of a police baton. There are two lady cops saying, in rather unfriendly tones, that there's no sleeping in the airport, and something about "getting on a train." One asks when my plane leaves, and when I tell her she gives me a jolt by suggesting I hurry up. That got me up, at least until I looked at a clock and realized she must not be familiar with the concept of linear time.

5:38 am - COFFEE.

5:50 am - SECURITY. I usually brace up for deportation around this time, but I'm so tired I just sleep-walk through it.

6:07 am - TRAIN SHUTTLE between concourses. Got to play this just right. Hate touching the grip bars handled by filthy frequent fliers, hate touching anything touched by others. I spread my legs for the best balance, never grasping the polls, ready to fall into my suitcase for cushioning. Wonder if regimented hygiene and a heightened immune system will speed my recovery from a broken clavicle. I prefer a compound fracture to sharing slime with a fellow human.

6:19 am - GATE A-27. So far so good. Plane's on time. Now they've got two hours to invent delays before I get riled again. Sleep?

6:21 am - SLEEP, or try to.

8:00 am - All is well. Plane's on time, at the gate, passengers boarding. I've found a Pay-Day in my pocket; may've been there a while. A fitting breakfast... I am not worried....

Matt