So... many, many things happening as it happens. "Well Done, Pear Danube!" is about to be optioned, END CALIGULA has just been accepted into the Midtown Theatre Festival, and the Phillipine Tarsier lives to fight another day! Yes, machetes! Many thanks to the people of Unartistically Frustrated for allowing me to fool them into thinking that my work is tremendous! HA! THE FOOLS! THE FOOLISH FOOLS WHO ARE FOOLISH! And so on.
On the Pear Danube end of things, the offer has been made and it includes money. I won't say how much money, but... I can probably claim to be a writer again on next year's tax return, at least for one more year. My folks at Axial Entertainment are arranging the whole thing and want to set up a meeting between the producers and myself while they're in town for the Tribeca Film Festival. Maybe I'll get to meet Savage Steve Holland and ask him what Lizzie McGuire is really like.
2005, man. Pretty cool. 2004, like a bad dream. With hobgoblins and spiders and... inept general managers. Spooky! (That's for Shelley if she's reading. Hi, Shelley! I'm not wearing any pants right now!)
If she is, then she can tell me if I spelled her name wrong.
Now if I can manage to squeeze into the Summer Play Festival and the Fringe Festival and make a movie, then I can retire to a little farmhouse in Montana, buy many guns, surround myself with barbed wire, and grow a proper beard. Not this scraggly little bunch above my lip and below my chin. I mean the whole thing. I've been practicing trying to get it out, holding my breath for extended amounts of time and such.
On the Pear Danube end of things, the offer has been made and it includes money. I won't say how much money, but... I can probably claim to be a writer again on next year's tax return, at least for one more year. My folks at Axial Entertainment are arranging the whole thing and want to set up a meeting between the producers and myself while they're in town for the Tribeca Film Festival. Maybe I'll get to meet Savage Steve Holland and ask him what Lizzie McGuire is really like.
2005, man. Pretty cool. 2004, like a bad dream. With hobgoblins and spiders and... inept general managers. Spooky! (That's for Shelley if she's reading. Hi, Shelley! I'm not wearing any pants right now!)
If she is, then she can tell me if I spelled her name wrong.
Now if I can manage to squeeze into the Summer Play Festival and the Fringe Festival and make a movie, then I can retire to a little farmhouse in Montana, buy many guns, surround myself with barbed wire, and grow a proper beard. Not this scraggly little bunch above my lip and below my chin. I mean the whole thing. I've been practicing trying to get it out, holding my breath for extended amounts of time and such.
