By Nick Griffiths
It used to be my 18th birthday while I chanced upon Harrison Dextrose's The misplaced Incompetent: a Bible for the Inept visitor, little understanding that it should at some point lead me to kill a guy with a useless penguin... encouraged by way of explorer Harrison Dextrose s publication a curmudgeonly account of travels via retro lands looking for a misplaced ingesting accomplice and Suzy Goodenough s carnal delights because the prize, Alexander gray rolls off his couch to persist with within the acclaimed guy s footsteps. this can be no traditional go back and forth textual content, related to poodle-farming, the Frihedhag sisters, wilful consumerism, an undesirable yet undaunted sidekick, one too many rodents and the 24-hour Iditamush sled race, starring a sausage puppy. And alongside the way in which, Alexander could, or won't, aid to avoid wasting the area. It s that sort of a trip.
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Additional resources for In the Footsteps of Harrison Dextrose
The temperature was hot that day, and the kids decided they didn’t feel like doing my dad’s conditioning drills, which he had learned during his time in the navy. After a series of foul-pole-to-foul-pole sprints, one of them staged a revolt and refused to follow his orders. “This is dumb. Baseball isn’t about running. Any real coach would know that,” my teammate shouted, standing defiantly in front of my dad. The instant the sound of that kid’s insubordinate voice hit our fearless leader’s ears, my dad had the same reaction Bruce Willis has at the end of The Sixth Sense when he realizes he’s been dead the whole time: complete shock and confusion, followed by deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself.
On the first night of my imprisonment, my dad came home from work, tossed on some sweatpants, and strolled into my room. “Get out your math book. We’re gonna cure this case of the stupids,” he said as he sat down next to me on my bed, pointing at a stack of books underneath a pile of my dirty clothes. “Jesus, open a window, it smells like death shit in here,” he added. As we started to go through the book, he realized that not only did I not know how to do any of the problems, I didn’t understand the basics I needed to even tackle them.
When my dad moved to Point Loma, our seaside San Diego suburb, in 1972, it was mostly a military community. He had served in the navy, and the familiar atmosphere and like-minded residents made him feel welcome. Over the years, Point Loma’s proximity to the beach made it a desirable neighborhood to the wealthy, and huge houses sprouted up all around our modest three-bedroom home. My dad was not pleased. “I refuse to become a fucking yuppie by proxy,” he announced after a young couple moved in next door, replacing one of the last of the old military officers who had once lived on our street.