Thursday, November 1, 2012


I thought I'd be doing NaNoWriMo by now. Have a story all planned out and everything. Spent HOURS trying to sign up and complete start-up chores. The vampires I blog for even agreed to let me do it. (it's me, wilkravitz, in case you don't know) But it's almost impossible for a tech challenged soul like me to get it all right. And THEN, when I ask for help, I apparently did that the wrong way too. Plus, our server VIRGINBroadband2GO, made sure they did their part via slow responses plus many other sundry varieties of punishing, little tortures. So.... attempting proved futile. I'm STILL not 100% hooked up the right way. Nor have they answered any questions. Will I go back tomorrow? I'd like to. It'll be a day late. But that's OK, because I suffer from word hemorrhage of the brain. So until then, let me continue to fill you in on what's going on 'round here. 

Luna pretends like she doesn't know us. She's a vampire and a physician and an Anti-Enchantment bureau operative. Started as a mortal. But she had a 'thing' with Tomas and Papa and now it's 'fangs' for the memories. Truth is, our guys really don't care. Papa still occupies some ethereal (finally figured out how to spell that one) Shangri-La or Brigadoon, so he's completely useless. Sure he steps in and 'does something' when HE wants to, like some uncaring, lethargic chef stirring the pot. 

Oh, I need a vacation from all these 'miraculous' creeps for a while. Let 'em go bother Anne Rice for a few weeks. She'd dress 'em up in leather and lace, prance 'em around and have a great time. Tomas would get on swimmingly with her. He'd rediscover that Castilian lisp (which was never his regional accent) and sip those old, thick, Spanish wines. Jerez, I think they call them. Annie would pout and stick out her lower lip and kick her feet. I'm telling you; I'd love to push that rotten bastid out a window, but the little bitch can fly.

Doctor Franklin could help me, but he won't. And I really can't complain about him, 'cause he's got other problems. Seems his 'remedies' don't work anymore and he's starting to age fast ..... which can get real inconvenient when you're already three hundred and six years old. What, he's 'only' got the body of an eighty four year old? How the hell is that supposed to help him now?

Wants Tomas to do something for him. Wants him to test drive the Great Armonica.... And the one they got out here is really big. In a sense, what the old reprobate wants to do is get into heaven, or someplace like it, without ever dying.  Like a divine 'wetback' if you will. The machine's supposed to do it for him. It's gonna rev him up and spin him 'round real fast, all the while bombarding his flaccid, drooping, flabby flesh with carefully orchestrated harmonic frequencies designed to instantaneously shuck off the mortal coil and deposit him securely in The Bosom of Abraham. Sarah says - Why doesn't he just die?..... Why, indeed? A scientist to the end. What can I tell you. 

Did you know he had a son? A 'baby boomer,' named Merrill. Think he's about fifty seven years old. Got an antique shop on Pine Street. Don't see the old man much. But they get together once in a while. And ,boy, does he stand to inherit a lot. We don't think about it today, but Franklin was rich even in Revolutionary times. Imagine how much he's got now. You know, that big contact lens cleanin', eye care company is part his. And he owns West-of-Broad-Street real estate comin' out the wazoo. Think he's got a big chunk of Sandals, or one a them other resorts, but I'm not sure. I know he's had Bill Gates and Warren Buffet down to the complex under the navy yard. Bill and Hillary Clinton were there once too. But I'm not supposed to tell you that. I'm not supposed to tell you anything. They think all I do is shuffle up the real stuff and hide everything. But I don't. And if you've followed us since the beginning you KNOW how many times I've said - Please understand we just pretend that what comes next is fiction.

You think those bastids read this? No. Not one. Not ever.  Oh, they like havin' their names out there. You know how vain they are. Think it's all like a dumb blog-opera for stupid human consumption.... Let'em go to hell. what do I care? Oh, they're SO good. Not like all them other life-eaters. Yeah? When's the last time they bought me a decent new pair a sneakers?... the cheap, bastids. 

You know, a group a guys from L.A. wanna catch 'em. They wanna grab 'em. They want a study 'em. Sorta like when they had Papa under The Vatican in Rome. I know, 'cause I took the call. Last week, I think it was. Told the 'familiar' I'd be sure an' pass it along. Made like I was writing it down and everything. But I didn't. And three days later that brown nosed 'familiar' got himself run over by a car. Not from side to side. Not across the waist. No, not like that. This dumb bastid managed to get hisself  flattened from crotch to head. You know... the scenic route.  Ever see one a them rubber dolls where you squeeze it and the eyes, the ears and the tongue pop out? Oh, it was wonderful. Don't look at me like that. Shut up. Don't look at me. 

God, I wanna do NaNoWriMo. Wanna grab myself an agent and get away from those sons a bitches.

Listen, if any of you know somebody at NaNoWriMo, or Amazon or anyplace over there, PLEASE ask them to help me do all the start-up crap the right way...... I have been among the 'dead' too long. 


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