The response to my letter about my dear Grandfather Grandpa has literally flooded my electronic mail’s inbox like gasoline floods a car’s engine. Where the gasoline is coming from, I don’t know, but I am sincerely afraid my computer machine is going to explode. So I’ll make this short because the mechanic can’t make it over until after 6 and I’m already craving my menthols. We’re already a month into the new year — out with the aughts and in with the 10s as they say — and my publisher is already telling me that Count Cowcula needs to be more believable or it won’t sell; I’m telling my publisher to be more specific about what, exactly, is so unbelievable about cow vampires, because if those little cow horns aren’t a mark of the beast then I don’t know what is; and I better be getting paid soon whether it goes to print or not because we have a contract and I’ve already spent most of the money they haven’t even given me yet.
These fumes are getting to my head. More anon.
jf, npfw
johnfontaine [at] bobsoldout.com
