Begapalooza 2011 in ten... nine... eight
Updates:
- Still alive, so... yay.
- Still working on "The Ballad of the Wayfaring Stranger and the Dead Man's Whore." It's moving slowly, though, because...
- I was walking down the street the other day and found myself writing another goddamned book. So, yeah. I'm planning to finish the story before I tuck solidly into the new thing, but who can say where my brain will go.
- I'll be launching a Kickstarter site imminently to try to generate funds and buzz for Zobop Bebop. It's still a couple of places, but I'm ready to move forward in some sort of direction, and I'd love to have someone bankroll my stalking of Forest Whitaker.
An aside... I've been trying to find Forest Whitaker's address or information about his representation with no luck at all. I can track down Salma Hayek's address without a problem, but Whitaker's a fucking ghost, dog.
And, no, there's nothing creepy about having Salma Hayek's address. If she needs something and calls me up, I don't want her to have to waste time telling me how to get to her place. "No, baby," I'll say. "There's no need to get dressed. I can pick up your dry cleaning, some strawberry pie and some whipped cream. You just stay there, freshly showered and lush beyond the dreams of human longing, and I'll be right over. I'm here for you. I. Am here. For you."
Nothing creepy about that at all. No, sir.
- Still alive, so... yay.
- Still working on "The Ballad of the Wayfaring Stranger and the Dead Man's Whore." It's moving slowly, though, because...
- I was walking down the street the other day and found myself writing another goddamned book. So, yeah. I'm planning to finish the story before I tuck solidly into the new thing, but who can say where my brain will go.
- I'll be launching a Kickstarter site imminently to try to generate funds and buzz for Zobop Bebop. It's still a couple of places, but I'm ready to move forward in some sort of direction, and I'd love to have someone bankroll my stalking of Forest Whitaker.
An aside... I've been trying to find Forest Whitaker's address or information about his representation with no luck at all. I can track down Salma Hayek's address without a problem, but Whitaker's a fucking ghost, dog.
And, no, there's nothing creepy about having Salma Hayek's address. If she needs something and calls me up, I don't want her to have to waste time telling me how to get to her place. "No, baby," I'll say. "There's no need to get dressed. I can pick up your dry cleaning, some strawberry pie and some whipped cream. You just stay there, freshly showered and lush beyond the dreams of human longing, and I'll be right over. I'm here for you. I. Am here. For you."
Nothing creepy about that at all. No, sir.