That Movie About Indians

When I was growing up, back in the Cretacious era, there was something comforting about snapping on the TV set at three a.m. and seeing either snow or the Indian head target.

Now let's be fair, it was a target only in name for analog cameras to point at and calibrate so that the next day's "Mr. Green Pants and his Happy Animal Farm" wouldn't be out of focus and Snappy the talking goat wouldn't give a generation of kids a nightmare neuroses expressed only in driving too close to the edge of the road.

But am I getting too autobiographical?

Insomnia ain't what it used to be. Turn the set on in the middle of the night now and you get "The Best of Hardball" featuring issues you gave a shit about when your 401-K seemed more like a retirement account rather than the 201-K it is today. Yep, market movements, the state of the world and my computer having caught a huge virus all conspire to keep me awake and wishing for the Indian Head target rather than Anthony Bourdain visits Burkina Faso that's on right now. The Indian Head bored you to death and you stood a chance of sleeping. Bourdain only leads to Zimmer and you wonder if he's going to put that thing in his mouth. Rest easy, he always does.

Here I am again, and part of the reason for my absence is that the home computer caught an awful virus that I just got rid of by re-setting the whole damn system. That's right. Old stories, pictures, shitty downloads were all triaged to CD's while I cursed the comic fanboy from Brooklyn who launched this insiduous thing. Ah well, so it goes. I've learned to scrub my computer, he will never have carnal relations with a woman.

So faster than you can say "Driving the Flies" I'm back at the keyboard.

And boy I hope there are no movies about Indians on tonight.

Bunny on.