The Volatile Temper Of A Pissed Off God by Belinda Roddie When I was thirty years old, I was convinced that one of the greatest storytellers of our time, one of the only storytellers who could catch my interest with such tenacity, such wit, and such intentionally peppered malice toward all things conventional and decorous and socially appropriate or acceptable, was Harlan Ellison. It was my opinion - a very well established opinion at that, a researched one, a well-read one - that no one could do better to jar, to horrify, to amuse, or to provoke thought than the wild hair shock of words that Ellison rattled from his go-to typewriter. No one could do it better. I was first introduced to the man's work at the age of seventeen - in theater class, which was led by a teacher who looked more like a mad scientist than a thespian - which, looking back on it, makes me chuckle. To this day, I have no idea if Mr. Lushenko actually had the express permission of Ellison or his estate to s...