i need a car
I need a car. I need one bad. I need to hop in, slam the door, and drive all night until the early morning finds me in Montana or Nevada or Wyoming. I want to roll down the windows and let the late-night summer air blow through my tightly pomaded and sprayed hair. Then, after I sit by a waterfall, have a milkshake at a roadside diner, and shake hands with an honest-to-goodness Injun, I can drive back home, and everything will be all right.
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The MP3s on the sound page were inoperable for a few weeks. They've been fixed. Savor them.
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I'll be in LA in August to act as a Greaser Stud in some non-pornographic filmic re-creations of pulp-novel vignettes. It's all for a DVD to accompany a new Feral House book about raunchy sex novels from the '50s and '60s.
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On August 31 at 2:30 PM, I will command the Bookfair stage for a half-hour at the Bumbershoot hootenanny up in Seattle. Why couldn't they have called their festival something else? It's almost as embarrassing for me to say the word "Bumbershoot" as it is to order the "Rooty Tooty Fresh 'n' Fruity" special at IHOP.
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Thanks for all your earnest inquiries regarding my high colonic. Alas, the Goddess-worshiping, bowel-blasting "alternative health" practitioner screwed up the time of my appointment, and my Inner Pathways remain unpurged. Soon, though ... soon ...
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Congratulations—I think—to The Jews for their seemingly insurmountable lead in my "WHO'S TO BLAME?" poll. Which reminds me of a joke:
German scientists are able to resurrect Hitler from the dead, and the newly reborn Führer holds a press conference where he announces his plans to kill 40 million Jews and one clown.
"Why one clown?" asks a reporter.
"See?" Hitler says. "I told you nobody cares about the Jews."
