The Girl I Hated For A Day

Thousand Oaks/Westlake likes a spy novel; they want some pulp fiction, and oh my God, they can't make any sense, because I've got a spy fiction trilogy, and they don't want it down the road in Hollywood, where it belongs. I think too logically, so they built brand-new mental hospital/prison combos that look just like the ones I worked in back in Missouri.

Same architect? Don't get me going, or the "white world" version of the Secret Service might come to call. Instead, let's get going on finding a big warehouse in Nashville, because I've been there, liked that (even though the populace was a bit misinformed about my intentions). Movie studio, like neo-RKO in California? Forget it, because I know where I'm not wanted, so much so, a certain defense contractor with big windowless buildings I saw with my own eyes can no longer be found on Soldier Boy's Internet. They are all "gone." What? I don't have a car to go check on them, I am now officially "worried" about them, and what is worse, no one will give me a ride to the police station to report the eleven crimes perpetrated on me in California since May, 2008.

Scorecard! Get your scorecard, here!

Thousand Oaks (7)
Burbank (2)
LA County (1)
Los Angeles (1)

One, the first, was reported to the LA County District Attorney, but I think they thought it was a bad joke, or a tawdry remake of LA Confidential, which I thought was a lousy movie, by the way. Four of these crimes will not be reported for the following reasons:

1. Too old (Insignificant theft of boxer shorts)
2. Don't care (Mr. Coffee heist)
3. Need stylish new glasses anyway (Cuckoo Von's Manager, you can keep them)
4. No description of perp's vehicle (Struck on leg by rock toss)

Back to the defense contractor, I'm sure they are still there, even if I am no longer allowed to peek at their website. How about Hughes buildings in Culver City? Anything left? The old Watergate Spooks are so clever, when I complained I'm homeless and still paying Hughes Aircraft pensions out here, a man well into his 80's came to me who I am sure was one of them, and asked if I could help him do some research on bank stability. He said he wanted his money to be safe, but he had only "a little bit." Sorry the check is small, but in the old days I've read while the boss was away, the workers would play, so as my little league coach said, "Whaddya want, gravy?"

Grandpa Howard inherited a not so little drill bit, and he spent time improving it before going into playboy mode, so it is indeed a Hughes thing to put business before pleasure. Buddy, YOU are going in the nuthouse for 72 hours if you want to act crazy around me, and a chunk of Eastern Missouri's judges & police know I talk the mental health talk, and walk the walk. Yes, I'll be at your 14 day commitment under the California statute, because I can read laws, and 72 hours is not nearly enough for E.T.-chasers and AmGene splicers.

If great-grandma was an opera singer, how come I can't stay on-key for the Beverly Hillbillies theme? Don't know, but I will "confess" to saying, "Cue the banjo" as I run back into public buildings with hack-a-doodle dooed public computers upon which I keep writing, writing, writing. It's a job, really, it is, but the current pay rate is below what triggers Federal Election Commission nosiness about my benefactors. Keep it under $50, and Uncle Sam will be none the wiser about what you are doing around me.

Correction: As my former assistant would say, "Not really," about gov'ment interest, but at least the real spookies are better at it than Langley kids, or "Dark Side" juvenile delinquents with a spy momma or daddy.

You want spy novel? I want a bigger flash drive that does not "disappear," but to satisfy Tom Clancy fans, there are females involved in this mess, and the one with the biggest mouth I hated recently, but only for a day. I can't do it. I just can't hate someone for being a self-admitted, worthless, meaningless spy. Sad to say such "frankness" can divide the psyche, I suppose, and make a spooky one one of the best at their craft.

This I accept, along with an open source NASA breach that tells me how to shut-down my sinister crap in space with a minimum of fuss. May I get a little optimistic? A New Ager I'm not. A futurist I'm not. A visionary? I'll sleep on it, but it's getting kind of cold to sleep comfortably homeless. Sound sleep for Hughes? This will lead to pipe dreams like me on your flat screen TV wearing a space suit. Ah, I can see a partially peeled-off piece of masking tape on it that says HUGHES in bold Aerial type.

I'm on Mars, kids, and you are seeing red hills in the background. But first, I have to click on the "backchannel" and ask, "Madame President, can I show them what's over yonder?" I think she'll say "Okay," and all non-denominational Christians will have to admit we are not alone.