J. Thorn in 1993

On September 26th, 2011, Patrick Borally drove his catering van from a Cleveland suburb to Niagara Falls.  He crossed the border heading north, deeper into Canada.  On October 2nd, 2011, near Fork Lake in McVittie Township, Ontario, a passerby saw a rubber hose running from the exhaust pipe to the van’s window and called the police.  This was Borally’s third attempt at suicide since he disappeared from Richmond Heights.  The family attorney addressed the media, calling off the regional search conducted by hundreds of volunteers and law enforcement officials.  “His doctor told me that Pat has a serious brain disorder that could be related to his spinal meningitis that he had as a child,” his wife, Kathy Borally, said. “He is getting help. Thank God he doesn’t remember anything, and he seems positive now. And he’s ready to get home to us, and God was with him through all of this.”  God made it through the border crossing without his birth certificate or passport, apparently.

I think I have the same brain disorder as Patrick Borally.  The last flare-up occurred in 1993 when I worked as a defense contractor going by the nickname “D-Fens.”  All I wanted was breakfast from Jack-in-the-Box.  I remember saying to my wife, “I’ve passed the point of no return. Do you know what that is, Beth? That’s the point in a journey where it’s longer to go back to the beginning. It’s like when those astronauts got in trouble. I don’t know, somebody messed up, and they had to get them back to Earth. But they had passed the point of no return. They were on the other side of the moon and were out of contact for like hours. Everybody waited to see if a bunch of dead guys in a can would pop out the other side. Well, that’s me. I’m on the other side of the moon now and everybody is going to have to wait until I pop out.”  And then she told me that the police were there.

There’s a pretty good chance I’ll die in the latter stages of a zombie apocalypse.  Being a vegetarian, I’m worried about what the other zombies are going to think when I turn my undead nose up at raw human flesh.  But then again, there’s also a good chance I’ll implode, bursting into a flaming ball of hair, obscenities, and dead Canadians.  Why Canadians, you ask?  Because some mornings I have to drag myself out of bed and resist the urge to go Borally.  I have to convince myself that driving to Canada and detonating a car bomb along with some Mounties as collateral damage isn’t easier than dealing with my mortgage, debt, mid-life crisis, and the end of Judas Priest.

I dedicate this post to my new digital friend, Jason, the long-lost third McKenzie brother.  If you got here from his blog, help yourself to Preta’s Realm for only $0.99 (for a limited time).

Say Hello to Yourself

You devour epic fantasy and seize the opportunity to transcend worlds through books. It’s not unusual for you to sink into a recliner, in the most secluded corner of your house, and read for hours. And interspersed between trilogies set in distant worlds, you come back to this one, drawn to the mysterious, dark realm of supernatural thrillers and horror. Exotic settings must jump off the page and come alive in your mind, especially stories of survival; life on the fine edge of existence. You cheer for the reluctant hero, the common man thrust into obligation and you also cheer for the villain, the arch nemesis.

Episodes of “Ancient Aliens” clog your DVR while you anxiously await the return of “Cities of the Underground” on History. You can recite verses from “The Raven” but get more excited when someone wants to talk about “The Rats in the Walls.” Heavy music fills your iPod. Those shiny discs that the kids no longer recognize lay scattered on the passenger side of your truck. You are a fan of Black Sabbath and Aerosmith, not “reality show” Ozzy or “American Idol” Steven. You prefer “Master of Puppets” over “The Black Album,” and like Cliff more than Jason or Robert. The rumble of a Harley Fatboy makes you smile and you know Detroit will never produce anything cooler than a 1977 Corvette. When you have the choice, you opt for Guinness over Budweiser and Starbucks over Dunkin Donuts. You can’t hang a picture without a power tool. You can’t purchase a power tool without hanging it in your garage.

Louis C.K. makes you laugh while the memory of George Carlin makes you cry. You love vampires and hate Twilight. You know the difference between a hip check and a cross check and despise golf unless it includes a home video of a Tiger mistress. You prefer Suicide Girls over Playboy Playmates, long hair over short hair, curves over rails. Ten years later, you don’t necessarily believe the full-on conspiracy theory surrounding 911, but you also know an F-15E Strike Eagle could have prevented anything from hitting the Pentagon.

Too young to give up, too old to start over. Too immature for Johnny Walker Red, too mature for a case of Busch. You’ve been around long enough to get tired of mainstream entertainment and yet you’re still excited by a new author, band, or movie. This is you, my ideal reader. Let’s hang out sometime. I want to be your ideal author.