Author: Nathan Marsak

Too bad, as BOC’s were always opulent affairs, given as they had all that nice Comstock Load money (which they merged into Union Bank about ten years ago).

Look at Miske, after having given the what-for to some Mutt and Jeff team, with a much-needed reminder of their place in this world (and getting shot for his trouble):

I mean, dig the smirk. The man should have been dead, but was blessed this, his day of birthing. There, above his shoulder, watching o’er:

Thank you for your attention.

Yes, I love their embittered hearts and unrepentant drug addiction and that I love their overblown need for role playing is an unfortunate matter of public record, but their fundamental incapacity to discern between “alive” and “dead,” that’s the part of nursing that weirds me out.

But Ralford Jr. rose-like Lazarus, with Nurse Alma’s bidding? Or did the li’l revenant self-resurrect, rolling his rock away from the entrance of the morgue? In any event, pointless theological speculation aside, Junior up and dies again, making him some sort of undead I Am Legend spawn.

All in all, the question remains, what’s a dead baby worth? Above and beyond the nine months of minimum wage that is your due? The Ralfords asked for 100k and settled for five. Telling. Of course, kid would have grown up to be one of those self obsessed boomer types. Ahem.

This much we know with certainty: screams from a morgue-there’s a sound you won’t soon forget.

I don’t buy it. Not for a minute.

Here’s Larrabee’s “steep grade” as spoken of in the paper’s account:

And after the car barrelled down that grade, it would have had to have turned this sharp corner-

To then hit 8852:

–no. I stand by my estimation of 19 December (uh, and of 21 December) wherein I take nursing to task. At the risk of conjuring the ire of the American Nursing Association, I put it to y’all, that Lucille “Registered Nurse” Bianchi’s auto was somehow bewitched by said’s nursing powers. That which can be equated with nursing invariably invokes madness, mayhem and death. Prove me wrong, ANA? Didn’t think so.

Bianchi’s auto. An inanimate object animates itself. That’s hard to do. Under the direction of a nurse, however-

Yeah yeah, leave nurses alone. Nurses see more death than doctors. Hell, nurses see more death than do most Army sergeants. The only gals who see more death than nurses are lady morticians.

(Those of you who, like this humble writer, only date nurses and morticians know that one cannot, under any circumstances, put both in the same room at the same time. Neither oil and water, nor fire and ice, between the two, it’s fire and another kind of fire- but on the Crazy Scale, nurses outstrip morticians 11-5. Trust me on this one.)

History does not record what transpired between the two from the moment of Sheila’s abduction and her discovery in that hotel, but if it was worthy of daddy’s suicide, we can assume it was nothing good.

Had Donald rolled down the window of his Nash, or Plymouth, or Hudson, as the bulls approached? Did the folks within this handsome collection of prewar apartments hear a muffled pop, or a startling crack? Could Sheila-Shirley feel his head explode, wherever she was?

It’s no wonder folks fetishize postwar America-the anteplaystation years-while now grown men sit together in front of some giant screen (all those years donating plasma finally pay off), back in ’47 we were Men, and we had drinking parties. (We’ll ignore the homorerotic overtones within the Times’ use of the phrase “drinking companion” and Mrs. Hepner’s account that the two were “playing pretty rough.”)

In any event. The drinking party: you drink, you get drunk, somebody dies. That‘s a party, you computerized pansy.

Another Christmas tradition? Sleeping in the garage. Hearing your children’s bones crackle like yule logs.

And so on. I was bitterly (if not a little blithely, I’ll admit) considering my blogging options for this day while out in Santa Monica preparing to shoot the former location of Axley Manor, when I came across this 75¢ photo in a pile of crap in a junk store.

Santa, you magnificent bastard, you read my wish list.