I turned 27. Great people die at 27. I’m expecting to live well past 27, until I’m old, decrepit, and haven’t produced anything meaningful in a very long time.
One of the criticisms is that magazine doesn’t really represent anything. We certainly resent just about everything, but evidently, that’s not the same thing.
I’d love to tell you it’s been a dozen or more roses making a shitload of copies of Lollipop and then dropping them off he way most people put out their trash.
Maybe we can’t get our assignments in on time, at least we can drive. Quit your bitching about how everyone isn’t like you. It would be a scary world if we were.
People think I’m a mean, insensitive, anal-retentive, arrogant guy. Actually, I’m a misunderstood, sensitive, artist type, I’m just not usually drawn that way.
Yeah, so I lived up to the stereotype last month by showing up late and drunk to judge the WBCN Rumble. I was disqualified. Sorry. Doc Hopper won, by the way.
More writers and artists stormed out, slamming the door behind them. I don’t have the heart to tell them the springs are broken and the door would slam anyway.