We’re heading into the busy Con season for Yours Truly. The huge Con season is actually during the summer, but I was off in the wilds of Oregon (well, a small town) getting the big mofo novel for hire written and also enjoying highs of 78 while Las Vegas was, apparently, on fire at 116 degrees in the shade.
Pictured: Vegas shade.
I went to the Tampa Bay Comic Con with Brutha of Anutha Mutha Sean Conner, an excellent Con pal who understands my need for frequent naps. He also understands that I bring earplugs for him to make it through the night of my toilet-flush-gurgle-from-hell snoring. His snoring is more jackhammer-like, even and so something one is able to get used to. Mine, on the other hand, “isn’t even rhythmic! You can’t get used to it!” These are his actual words from a Con in New Orleans. My wife has not stopped laughing since I told her.
“Ha ha! Ha! HA HA! HA HA HA HA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” Continue reading
Hello, Hoadeketeers! I am currently in the city of
Tampa Bay Tampa, home to the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, Tampa Bay Rays, Tampa Bay Lightning, and — most importantly for us this weekend — The Tampa Bay Comic Con! Which, apparently is all held in the waters of the Tampa Bay, since there is no city called Tampa Bay.
Parking at the stadiums is a <em>bitch</em>.
Anyway, the Tampa Bay Comic Con is going to be a wonderful event. It starts today, and since I don’t have any duties until 6:00 tonight (I’m a speaker but not a vendor, although I can and hopefully will sell books after my talks and panels), I can actually walk around and look at stuff. When I’m selling at a table, I get quick bathroom furloughs and otherwise am focused as a muthafugga on selling my awesome wares.
I shall be posting — ssh, no need to thank me yet — from the Con all weekend, and will have some nice video for
my fans those people who visit my webpage, perhaps due to typos when entering their intended URLs.
This blog entry, my first in weeks because of various projects of which I am in the middle, but it started off as just an email to my pal Greg that I would be flying out of Portland on Wednesday morning, which he knew. But “morning” in this case meant “12:30 AM.” (He, of course, was quite gracious, as expected.) So here’s the email in full … it got so involved I was like, “This would make a good blog post!” Please keep in mind that “good” is in the mind of the blogreader, and also it is a relative term. One person’s “good” may be a hoity-toity type’s “bad.”
Also, the word “bad” might be used to denote “good,” depending on the ’70s.
Well, I’m glad I looked at this itinerary, Greg, since I will be flying out not just early but EARRRRRRRRRRLY (12:30 AM) on Tuesday night/Wednesday morning. I don’t know if the trains to the airport are still running that late, but hell, if they aren’t, they SHOULD, amirite?
Then, in what seems for me to be the year of lots of Texas, I have a layover in Dallas (home of the Irving Cowboys) for just long enough not to be able to snooze before I get back on a new plane—or maybe the same plane after airing out my flatulence. (I’ve bean many places.)
Finally, at 11:14 AM, I arrive into my buddy Conner’s welcoming bosom—um, wait—I mean, into the welcoming humid bosom of Fort Lauderdale, named for Florida’s early settler hero, Jimmy Fort.
This song is a pantload more disturbing today than I think they realized in 1952.
Well, somebody’s got just a week to live.
I always thought that “Mr. Lee,” the classic by the Bobbettes, was written about the man who had better be your favorite classic horror actor, Christopher Lee! However, my friend Bunny informs me that it was written about their high school teacher, who was not Christopher Lee, much to his everlasting chagrin. (Also, it is almost impossible not to dance a little at this awesome ditty.)
Also, even though it now has nothing to do with song, here is a picture that, if you doesn’t make you smile, then you are probably the world’s first surviving heart donor.:
The Beatles were nice enough to write a song about me. It’s not terribly flattering, but hey, I’M A PAPERBACK WRITER, for Chrissake. I’ll take the attention.