Relax, I'm still a l-o-n-g way from being published. That would require foresight, perseverance and One Mother of a Rewrite. Oof ... Can I get a lil help? You know - poke through the screeds, rants and missives that have held me captive for nearly three years and pick which ones go into my still unplanned anthology? Tell you what, I'll even cut you in on the seventeen dollars and six cents I'm told to expect from this lofty project. And I've made it so easy! See, a recent bout of late night insomnia led first to a unfortunate sack of Cheezie Poofs, then to a frenzied whittling of my nearly nine hundred posts. When the sun broke over my upper lair, my head was on the keyboard, my gritty fingertips holding a visceral list of epistles. Rubbing Poof Dust into my eye, I scanned the hazy orange document and deemed it The Very Best of Viewfinder BLUES.
It's a silly, bitter, suspect read - but still one in need of rectification. If that kind of thing is your kink, have at it. I study it about it every other fortnight and still can't get past the damn Table of Contents. But that's just me. You're different. You can see through the bluster and the adjective abuse and savor the pith within. Call the kids, they'll help. Who needs Scrabble when my thwarted memoirs can be your family's favorite board game, I ask you? You'll all thank me later anyway, when I'm glossing over your contributions to the foreign press. Okay maybe not then, but sometime shortly after that - before the expense checks come back. But I digress. All I'm looking for now is a kick in the pants, otherwise this manifesto won't ever get outta the gate. So, how do ya like your Lenslinger? Pensive? Grizzled? Gassy? Man are you in luck! C'mon -- lemme have it. How else am I gonna mention your name on Oprah?