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The Uncanny Adventures of Mrs. Kurtz, Part One (Continued, ep. 2) Actually, it wasn’t that long; the message cycled after three minutes. The voice was male and pitched very softly, almost in a whisper or moan: You probably aren’t familiar with my name, but it’s Jim T. Biggins, and I’m one of the national directors […]

Blame this one on Dale, who complains that we haven’t sent out enough jokes lately. (Also from my brother Matt) A man walks into a psychiatrist’s office wearing only underwear made of Saran Wrap. The psychiatrist says, “Well… I can clearly see your nuts.”

Rejection. Clean Sheets doesn’t want my porn. I’m offering it to them for free, and they still don’t want it. Dang. That makes two stories back home that need to go out again. Too many.

Bad Joke, my Brother. Stop me if you’ve heard this one. Just try. There are many stories related to the sinking of the “Titanic”. Some have just come to light due to the success of the recent movie. For example, most people don’t know that back in 1912, Hellman’s mayonnaise was manufactured in England. The

Oh, well. I got stuck on Beauregard again. I think he’s going to turn one of my murder victims into a love interest. Stupid git. So I’m abandoning him for a week or two. Here’s the first part of the new story, mainly written as black-humor escapism from the Really Black Humor of Beauregard: The

Writing notes, and an epitaph. I’m still working on Beauregard. I had to stop doing the first draft on the computer and move to longhand, because Ray won’t play by herself long enough to make it worthwhile. One of the things that I’m doing in the story is laying down little false leads. Beauregard does

snippet: Portrait of a Player My guess is that he went along as a boy. He lacks the natural ease with which a true philanderer sports the appearance of a gentleman. The true philanderer may be a gentleman, a lover of women, skin, sweat, sex, variety. He doesn’t. He isn’t. He isn’t a lover; he’s

Razamatazz. Confetti and glitter. Certificates and celebration. This is the poetry of Pavlovian job gratification. Bells and whistles, hurrah, hurrah, production! The lion, in a capitolistic response to socialist theories, lies down, humpeta dumpeta, with the lamb. Corruption is a sad thing, when you sell your soul for mere perks.

In the mail: “The Name of the Feather” went to Ellery Queen on Tuesday the seventh. Am I happy with it? Hmmm…more happy than I was when I finished the first draft. But it’s the trickiest thing I’ve written so far–and perhaps the best–I’m worried. And I’m not sure if Ellery Queen is the right

Ray. Oh, yeah. And she can sit up by herself now. It took us a long time to actually catch her in the process: you look over at her, she’s on her tummy, you look back, she’s sitting up. Telepathy? No….