To friend in South Pasadena whose stoner screenplay I've been reading:
Um, I lost it. Somewhere, in the transfer of boxes from apartment to storage space, or perhaps in the transfer of office papers from desk to recycling bin, I inadvertantly threw it out. Can you e-mail me a new one? Or drop it off the next time we play Crap on Your Amigo? But the first 25 pages were great. I'll do one more thorough search tonight. I lost my cell phone charger too, so don't feel bad.
To friend in Mendota Heights whose zombie screenplay I've been reading:
Great first two pages. I'll keep reading. Zombies notwithstanding, there's got to be a way to fit in a Jimmy Buffet-type character - perhaps a man with zombies in his past, who swore he'd stop waking the dead and all he wanted was a life of leisure in the tropics with booze cruises and swim up-bars and an early retirement. But then his illegitimate son enlisted Jimmy's help in fighting the Ultimate Zombie. And he couldn't say no to One Last Fight.
To DJ on internet radio station I'm listening to now:
To editors of online literary journals who keep rejecting Applehead Man:
You don't know what you're missing! It's not allegory. It's not metaphor. It's just life, dude.
To co-worker who received my first open letter yesterday:
You came through. I'm so proud of you.