Rich Chwedyk knows all too well about my vision quest for the book with that title, the one I saw in the dinky joint that sold porn novels with b&w covers and minimal art, black posters, and had a pinball arcade in back on Randolph Street back in the day. I did happen to find this odd book cover that perhaps was inspiration for Mr. Porno Writer. I also found a couple of George Orwell books with cover themes I had never been aware of, and just to prove that I wasn't Googling bestiality pulp fiction, there's that science-fiction book which, well, looks like naked ladies ashamed of doing it with the Gieko lizard family. Its almost funny--not funny ha ha, rather funny psychotic--because I am not taking my bipolar meds for three days now. I'm involved with Mike Fountain in a writing project which involves a character who is bipolar. This is a comic now in page/panel format, so I need to get it right, falling house of cards and all. So that damn cover with the dog heads look real to me, too damn real. Fuck them, though. Wait, that's how the damn subject heading came about, though I doubt weiner doggies slobber much. Ah, the meds, right. Getting back to those, it explains why I've been away visiting Earth-14 and not blogging away about hashish and blood. In the recent future, expect me to discuss determinism, hanging upside down from a fence and then falling face first onto a George Pelecanos novel that was sent to me from Steve Malley in New Zealand, the massive rainstorm I was walking in for about 90 minutes (and getting tossed around more than if I was an innocent bystander in a fight between The Flash and The Rainbow Raider), the lovely blonde pharmacist Erica who was worried that I had not picked up my Lamictal yet, and mysterious Numbers Stations and the more mysterious Conet Project...looks like I have a lot to catch you guys up on...Wayne
