WM_0017 ::::::::: LitSLAP
Ago-go and other Good News
June 24, 2003
Buy My Book Because I'm Fucking Tired
of Being Poor.
That's my new marketing campaign. The whole thing.
It will picture me holding a fifteen inch knife
up against my own throat. I'm very excited about
it all.
So a brief respite in the difficulties of the Mingus
came down this week.
One. It looks like the pilot of LitSLAP is a go.
Not the season, not the full merchandizing and not
the cocaine and hookers in the trailer, but the
pilot all by itself, standing alone. Dick has officially
ground out his options in town, and I am his last
resort for some sort of publicity / meagre pay cheque
/ next opportunity. And I am taking full advantage
of it. Dick, for the uninitiated, is my old friend,
Dr. Richard Castrati. We grew up together and we
spent a lot of time discussing books together and
then he went off to university and I stayed behind
and knocked up Nat. Our paths diverged.
Recently, Dick returned to the Big Onion for reasons
I'm not legally supposed to divulge, but we reconverged
over a cup of absinthe and tea and I let him in
on my big plans for the tv show. He balked at first,
but lately he's come around, because as I mentioned
before, he's running out of options.
So add a little gear, a few long meetings, one honest-to-goodness
award-winning novelist named Peter Oliva, a couple
of bright camera and edit jockeys, and we're on
our way to glory. Course, if it really goes, I'm
going to have to get up in front of a whole room
full of people and act like I know what the fuck
I'm talking about when there's a good chance that
every word will stank like officious cow turd. But
what the fuck, I'm just going to drink my way through
it. Because if you see my point A, or rather, my
new marketing campaign, you'll notice that at this
point I'm willing to do whatever I have to in order
to get the fuck out of a day job and into a position
in life where I can do the following things:
A. Write every day.
B. Buy food.
C. Pay for my monthly roof.
D. Either buy a new car or have enough fucking money
to get the motherfucking 1987 Volvo known as the
Mo Fuck Mobile fixed up enough that I don't have
to get it boosted at least once a week, even in
the middle of the summer. I'm not fucking kidding.
And two. Sweet number two.
It looks like a very new, very small publishing
company named Zygote Publishing may actually be
interested in publishing Nunt. Now, if you have
ever sent out more than fifty 'query letters', and
received more than fifty 'Please Fuck Off and Come
Back with Some Decent Ideas That Won't Require Legal
Defence' letters, then you will understand that
this news was like getting sucked off by an enormous
lubricated vacuum manned by 14 year old nymphets
covered in olive oil. I liked it a lot. But, as
Mingus has learned in the past, do not get overly
excited by anything until the bank account doesn't
look like a 7-11 receipt, and maybe, just maybe,
I won't go fucking crazy before I can afford to
retire from the Abattoir. But I can tell you, it's
going to be a fucking footrace.
And for those of you who might still be concerned
about exactly what is going to happen between me
and Chloe, don't worry, it's all sliding down hill
very quickly. Let's put it like this. Last weekend,
me and K were at the bar, drinking absinthe and
fucked out of our gourds and I notice that for some
reason, a mutual friend of Chloe's and the Accountant's
walked in with a couple of his retard office goons.
To make the story short and accurate, I ended up
standing beside him holding a flaming glass of the
green devil chatting about Chloe and how that fucking
accountant's got nothing on Mingus, cause Mingus
pounds ass like a motherfucking Apache AH-64 Assault
helicopter pounds Iraqi children with uranium depleted
shells and that if I saw him in the street, I would
beat him down like a motherfucking Downs' Syndrome
dog. At that very point, I upend the glass, still
aflame, miss my face, light my pants and the bar
stool on fire and scream, as I'm slapping away at
my burning jeans, that 'I got nothing to... you
fucking hear me cocksucker, I GOT NOTHING TO FUCKING
LOSE.'
I thought it was quite the performance. K, who has
seen me through some of the worst, thought it was
a modest, but concerted effort, and rated it a strong
3 out of 10. Unfortunately, Chloe heard about it,
and rated it a solid 'fuck off and don't call me
for a couple of days'.So I'm staring at the box
now, waiting for a couple of days to pass, wondering
if I'm starting to get a little more manic than
ever, and I'm trying not to write down a detailed
40 point plan on how to ruin an accountant's life,
but I didn't sleep last night, and it's hot again
tonight, and I'm tired of reading books. Better
to keep on writing. And you got me going bitch,
yeah, you got me going.
Point One, it's coming soon. |
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