I’ve said it before: I don’t believe in ghosts and I won’t until the day I pass a phantom iguanodon in the street. It’s one thing to believe steadfastly in cold, hard logic and another thing entirely to maintain that confidence alone in the dark. You’ve heard that old saying–there are no logicians in freaky basements.
I spend some time each summer in Nederland, Colorado, which is a weird place. It’s not unusual to catch a man with three-foot dreadlocks who reeks of pot and my Oklahoman grandmother (who also reeks of pot, strangely) shopping on the same grocery aisle. Last summer I went to a show in a tiny elementary-school-auditorium-turned-movie-theatre with an audience who wouldn’t have looked out of place in Twin Peaks.
A couple summers ago, I could not get a job if my life depended on it. My mom wanted me out of the house, doing something productive, and believe me when I say I wanted that too. I went to three or four interviews, but I always stick my foot in my mouth during interviews and none of the employers wanted anything to do with me. (True, sad story: when I interviewed for my current job, I accidentally made a really inappropriate joke and went on to talk about my fun sense of humor. So when I say I’m bad in interviews, I mean I’m bad in interviews.)