contact arthur at sexpigeon dot org
Sexy ladies need not apply; the sun is groupie enough for this ragged rock apostle.
Fuschia springtime predicates a moldy mauve summer. And then a necrotic taupe autumn and then a rank, colorless winter. When 2010 turns out terrible, blame this here clumsy sundress.
Motherfucker-this and 99-theses-that. Aggressive, badical Lutherans want you to buy them beer.
TWO. FUCKING. SPACES.
Also, punctuation goes inside quotation marks.
Take it from a former professional typesetter: if you use multiple wordspaces anywhere in your manuscript, they will be stripped out.
Tastewise, these are firmly not-wretched. As far as texture goes, though, they are wretchedly firm.
Allegedly an aphorism that is said by Texans, according to an Amtrak schedule I read some years ago. Memorable, anyway.
Anyone know how to fix this?
Look, I’m no fan of this phone, and here at this tech conference it is a genuine embarrassment, but it has served me dutifully and it has made this blog churn.
Why am I at a tech conference? It is because I am desperately pitching “Sex Pigeon” in an effort to get a book deal. One post per 12” x 12” page, hardbound, six-color printing, a coffee-table kind of thing.
Har har, a joke. No. I am here because I recently left the field of book design in order to pursue this kind of thing. Time for glad-handing, then, and so off to Austin. Thankfully, though, I have found myself shaking a far greater number of sincere hands than slimy ones. People have been kind and bright. I mussed up the hair of one particularly bright goof in a burst of weird affection. It’s refreshing when glee tugs on one’s arm in such a way.
My throat went at some point, I got hoarse and squeaky, I trilled and squawked. A quiet night, then, tonight, no drinking, limited socializing. I get restless, though, and it has been anxious-making to watch partygoers tipple home across my motel windows. Closed the curtains soon enough but their gigglings still came through. Should be out there, meeting people, voiceless or no. Give me a sheet of paper and a pen and I’ll write hellos and where-you-froms to them. Or not, pen and paper are laughable tools here. A grimace if you record information in that manner. Note-taking is deader than newspapers, it seems.
Honestly, I’ve been so concerned with keeping my wits about me that I’ve absolutely neglected to party hard. Normally it is partying that breaks my phone. The last two times I broke it were by way of water, first in a drunkenly drawn bath, and later in a toilet bowl at a bar. These injuries healed. This latest injury, though, brought on by some grievance my phone has against temerity, would appear fatal.
My phone is dead, my phone is dead. I’ll take the occasion to admit a thing: I do have ambitions. They are vague and hard to act on but they do pluck at my gut.
Apologies for this detour into the sadder side of Sexpigeon (and oh, that terrible name, I still shudder at it). Know that these trips have been rare in the past and will remain rare in the future. Brighter lovelies are to come.
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