Danny James

F ive or more years ago, showing off my reckless idiocy to my wife, I stepped over a large beam on a roof, plummeting to my death some thirty odd feet through a hole in a freshly cross-sectioned former army barracks on Treasure Island, scheduled to be demolished the next day to make way for the fresh site of another self mythologizing Lucasfilm museum which we will name camp onomatopoeia. You see, after a life changing and traumatically blood-soaked rescue mission successfully undertaken by my wife and literal savior Lacey, the [vaulted? Hyperbolic] venture was cancelled, not due to unwanted publicity from my fatal fall, and established in its predictable relocation somewhere south of the Bay and adjacent to Hollywood. I was and am to this day haunted by front page cross-sections of the abandoned military zone, much like Time magazine’s Second Saturday headline “backwards ran sentences until reeled the mind” haunts the writing of wannabe [pugilists] and Georgé Yoda Lucas’ own writing in Star Wars: [puns on two original Star Wars movies], and Divorce Awakens. For what it’s worth, Walt would have hated this CG Thungercars: fart police animation. Yet, as is self evident from the above caucophonic acacia bowl of words, a good editor is everything, but they won’t save your life. Thank you Lacey my love. I wouldn’t be without you