Found a note to myself in the margins of a book, from 2 years ago. Upon some brain-scratching, realized it’s from when I was waiting out on 2nd Ave. to meet and interview someone for something, most likely Late Night Wallflower. Unless I had some other reason to be reading by the light of a bus stop in October of 2007 and note it to myself in the margins of a detective novel about a missing cat and shit-tons of cocaine. And yes, I write and underline in my books. I also dog-ear the pages, shut the fuck up. I probably treat my books better than you treat your precious precious babies.
I was hoping that by this point I’d be able to announce that I was gonna be doing a music-oriented column over at some place, but it’s been two weeks since I finished some “trial” work for them that took me 5 fucking minutes to do because I’m a fucking genius, so fuck them in their eye sockets. I’d appreciate at least being told “so this isn’t really what we were looking for”, and I’m not doing any more free work for them to “prove” myself. Don’t advertise and promise me a writing stipend if you’re going to ignore me for almost 2 weeks.
In the end it’s ok, because I have some other stuff in the works that I’m excited about, so stay tuned here.