Needs More Tigers Saturday, September 27, 2003

As Louis Armstrong said: Awwwwwwwwww, memory. I've been cleaning out my filing cabinet, so I can replace it with some stiff Swedish wood. Turned up some fascinating stuff; did I really write that many term papers in college? If so, how did I think of so many shitty titles? And better yet, why did I save them all?

Between all the term papers and half-written stories there were really only three or four things of any real value in the pile, and the only one that was absolutely irreplaceable was a letter from Anne Dick, the widow of you-know-who, who wrote to compliment my profile of her late husband. I never really kept the stacks in order, but I always sort of knew where the important stuff was.

Well, as I went through the scraps, the important stuff wasn't there. I turned up a couple of valuable business letters that I should've socked away in the first place, but nothing from Mrs. Dick. OK, no sweat; I went through everything again, slowly this time, including the bag of trash I'd set aside. Nothing. And it was ten thirty by now.

Still no problem. I didn't really do that good of a job sifting the last time. So I did it all again, and hope flared this time--her envelope, with the logo of her business out in California. But nothing inside.

I spent most of today tearing apart the stuff I'd already filed and fine-toothing my way through the rest. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I willed myself to remember the last time I'd taken the letter out; nothing would come. It must've been at least three years. An iron law of my life: If I don't make constant use of something, it vanishes. Books, records, anything--if I don't look it up, remind myself where it is, it takes whole days out of my life to find it again.

Then, somehow, I started to get flashes. A book. Did I stick it in a book? I flipped through my bios of PKD--the obvious place. Nothing. A halfhearted search through the piles again, but the idea of a book stuck with me. At the end of the day, just as we were about to go out to the movies, another flash: My buddy had held up one book when we were cleaning out my shelves: You wouldn't want to lose this one, huh?

Could I? Would I? I searched for it, a skinny little thing with a brown cover: It Was a Dark and Stormy Night, by Snoopy. The truest account of the creative process ever written.

There it was, right between C.S. Lewis and Madeliene L'Engle, for no good reason. And right inside the front cover was my letter, folded twice. I knew it by the black square in the letterhead. The angels sang. Awwwwwwwwwwww, memory.

Off to the movies with a light heart. And what a movie it was! "Bubba Ho-Tep," the latest Bruce Campbell, and for an added treat Bruce took questions before and after. We got a parking spot right outside the theater, huzzah for small victories, and met some fabbo pals for dinner. Bruce was a charmer, the movie was a riot, the drive home hitchless. Now I type with my letter safe, my wifey sleepy and all the heavens in order.

One question while the stars are right: Phil! Was it you? If you know any more secrets, clue me in.

@ 11:30:00 PM,

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