The phenomena became impossible to ignore when I rented a rat-infested coach house built on a weird steaming chasm. The only place in the house where cell phone reception was to be found was the decrepit pantry. This seemed to link up nicely with the voices in my head and my day job, as I sold telephone book advertising from under the dim bulb there. The house burned down in 1978. Only to materialize like a ghost ship, long enough for me to sign the lease and set sail. My little home was most definitely haunted by the ghost of the Thick Grandmother who perished in my bedroom, lit cigarette at her fingertips. I was positive that I was sensing her balmy presence and green aura lurking over me while I tried to sleep. She smelled like onion borscht. I felt her cold breath on the back of my neck whenever crossing the threshold
This endeavor came to me in a dream fluttering in on pigeon's song, huffing gold spray paint fumes from paper bags that leave face-halos. The Human nature D.J. is here and ready to set Shit right. I feel like I fell in a ditch and found cryogenic canisters filled with gold Indian Bones, Dracula phones, and colony collapse disorder front row seat tickets. The cameras I subscribe to on the moon confused Sylvia Plath with Sportscenter, and my phone started to emit funky but not totally unpleasurable goo, which I promptly lapped up. I was sure I was recognizing low-frequency birdsongs under the dial tone. And I swear I was eating cereal and watching Gertrude compete against the Honor- able Billy Williams, running Frisbee dogs through neon obstacle courses on eSPn2. A bright North Carolina Saturday morning. The Gods for revealing their secrets blinded Joybubbles, and J-Mo greeted my doppelganger at O'Hare airport the night before at three o'clock in the morning --the demon hour, "Dressed like me? Yeah he was you. Head to toe."