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 Editor's note: For those that missed it, Lunchboxing and Weapon-Shaped Records held a show Saturday night called the New Expression Spring Break!, where many of your favorite Lunchboxers read stories they've written. We've been trying to get press for events like this, and as luck would have it a professional journalist agreed to write an article about the show -- on the condition that we also allow him to read something. We haven't seen the article yet, but we thought we'd print the following transcript of his remarks to our lovely audience. (Just to show him how committed we are to our end of the deal.) Can't wait for the article! Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Kent Ripley and I've been invited to share a few excerpts of my self-published memoir, "Blind and Naked," which is currently available exclusively via fax machine. Much of the material you're about to enjoy was first printed in my column, "Rappin' With Ripley," which was named when "rap" meant "straight talk," instead of "one letter short of crap." As you may or may not know, I've been a contributing columnist for many years for publications including the Wichita Christian Militant, The Tulsa Segregationist-Review, and my bilingual weekly, Jihad De La Mundo. You'll have to forgive me for any technical difficulties during the reading. I know we're in the so-called "virtual reality" but I'm having a few Y2K problems. I got my start in the journalism game trying to be like my old man, who was, like his father and his father before him, a freelance alcoholic. Spring of 1956 found yours truly 13 years old and drowning my sorrows at a local watering hole when the editor of the town's afternoon paper, The Batavia Morning Sparrow, came barging in, asking if anyone could operate a printing press. I raised my hand without hesitation to respond: "No." But as luck would have it, my small hands were the only ones that fit in the gearshift, and it was decided my size would make me the best candidate should the need arise for a swift and anonymous burial. Speaking of Easter, is it me or does it seem like the hospitals are putting up decorations earlier every year? You can read my column about that and the dangers of radiation poisoning in the travel section of this morning's Pacifica Times-Advertiser. Also, if someone could please remind me if it gets to be about 2 a.m. in the Mountain Time Zone? I'm supposed to call my only daughter, from whom I'm estranged. They have a speaker phone which if you didn't know is a device that enables you to overhear your adopted granddaughter crawl from her wheelchair to call you a "sickening burnout." Moving on. In the old days I was full of piss and vinegar and my journalistic adventures took me to Gary, Mesa, Oil City, Quartzsite, Lubbock, Moon Township, Flagstaff, Medicine Hat, Torrance, Madagascar, and the Equator. This was when being a "deadbeat dad" still meant something. Nowadays, someone flashes some teat at the Super Bowl and the whole world wants to sue you. All I'm saying is that I don't think you can tell your kids what they can and can't watch unless you have some obsession with paying attention to them. Between video games and high gas prices, it's no secret kids now are growing up faster than ever. One day they're dressing like the "material girl," and the next you're spending $861 in long distance calls to see if they got the coupons you mailed them for Christmas. If it isn't El Nino, it's the gang from "Queer Eye" trying to marry your nephew, from whom you are also estranged. If there's one thing every journalist learns early in his or her career, it's never marry a pill-ravaged harpy whose father works at the District Attorney's Office. And when the cop pulls you over and lets you choose between the breath or urine test, choose urine, but buy some time by saying you have a medical problem, like colon cancer. And for God's sake, if he asks you about the fire you accidentally set up the road, wait to see what they have on tape before you start crying in front of him and the little girl you've kidnapped. Thank you and good night. |
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