THE GREAT GADFLY:

Poop Chutes and Bladder Ladders

Well, I guess it's time to let another cat out of another bag.

Sometime really soon, yours truly may be reading his feverish rants on the air, out loud - dirty words and all. I won't jinx myself before the deed is done by saying when or where I'll be broadcast, but let's just say it's radio and let's just say it's not, to the best of my knowledge, owned by Clear Channel. I think that narrows it down quite a bit, don't you? When and if it's all said and done and ready to go, I'll most certainly treat y'all to more info. And if this falls through, you can bank on some grade-A woe-as-me histrionics that'll make even the most besotted-upon emo band look like "Up With People!" by comparison. Naw. I'll probably just drink lotsa gin and call my friends with a lotta "Booo hooo. Booo hooo hooo," then forget the whole thing ever happened. That's probably the better way to go. Healthier and all. As it stands now, I'm having a pretty good experience with editing and revising a piece into the ground, and working with some freakin' sharp editors - it's a lot of turning around drafts and revising and changing my POV to read well for teenagers, then changing it all over again to read well for 50-year-olds, and at one point even coming to terms with the simple criticism, "you're too MEAN."

Oh!

Fate's a weird thing. Around this time last year, I was referring to myself in the third person as "Sad Fattie" and working for an unpleasant woman who wore Creed t-shirts to work and didn't know who Andy Warhol was. Now, I'm at a more-than-palatable day job, I just registered a television treatment, and I've been asked to write pop culture hatchet piece radio commentary.

And as if all this wasn't enough to keep me skipping through the damn daisies, I gots me every episode of THIS, on deee-veee-deee no less (ok, actually it's some weird mutation called "VCD", but hey - it plays), offa the eBay. Plopped on my doorstep last night, it did. How did I win this auction? I plea bargained.

I'm sure that soon enough, the bastards will drag me down and/or I'll start getting stoopid-cocky and start making a lot of VH-1 "Behind The Music" dumbass decisions, but for now I think it's absolutely reasonable to pay for live-in sex dwarves, not to mention maintaining my own personal menagerie of spider monkeys trained to score blow and tic while I'm out at work. I'd like to think I'm channeling my energy and resources wisely. Or at least scoring some good monkey junk.

Actually, in terms of real-live serious debauchery, I do plan on taking my friend Lizzard up on her offer to spend the night at her place this weekend, because she wants to get drunk and watch Oscar Nominee Queen Latifah on SNL. I don't know why, but it's very important to her that we not only get together for this program, but be drunk. Hey, I'll go along with it. Sounds like good times to me. U.N.I.T.Y., y'all.

Did anyone tape that witch trial movie the other night - the one with Kirstie Alley? I wanted to watch it because, well, it was Kirstie Alley as a witch - why else?- not to mention the listings said "adult situations" - softcore Kirstie witch action?! Move over, Blair Witch. But instead I watched Nevada get hit by a nuclear bomb on the latest trauma-packed episode of "24". Six of one, half a dozen of the other, I guess.

...oh, holy crap, and MORE good news...I just learned last night that the entire Cremaster cycle is coming to Chicago in May. I'm already stocking up on psychotic episode medicine in anticipation.