Work Thing:

Ongoing Disney Channel stuff and the research for a screenplay that will be so gottdamned brilliant it’s killing my fatass just to think about it. Also helping write and put together a “Furnace” presentation (actually, a “sizzle”) for the Fangoria convention in June, where the cast and crew shall be making an appearance. It’s clobberin’ time, motherfuckers.

Mind/Body/Health Thing:

I haven’t mentioned it here yet, but last week I had fairly extensive surgery on my left hand for a particularly nasty case of carpal tunnel, as well as a few other odd fine tunings. I had the right hand done 14 years ago, when my daughter, Anne, was still a toddler. Try changing a really ambitious diaper with only one hand sometime. Yeah. Needless to say, it was a proper bitch, but now that everyone who has emerged from my cooter can deposit their own von dookenstein into the appropriate receptacle all by themselves and clean the remaining residue from their undercarriages, as well, it has turned out to be a relatively feces-free recovery.

As for the surgery itself, the need for it came as absolutely no surprise at all. All the women who share my immediate gene pool eventually turn up with The Carp; it’s practically a family tradition. However, just to keep everybody happy, I still submitted to their extensive pre-op nerve tests. The results were beyond even my own dismal expectations. When my surgeon called a few weeks ago to let me know how my tests had turned out, I chuckled and joked with him before asking, “So, how bad is it, Doc? Shall I schedule a fitting for my platinum, Tiffany, jewel-encrusted pirate meathook?” Even I was a little flummoxed when my doctor (who is the head of hand surgery at one of the most prestigious medical institutions in the country, by the way) answered, “It’s as bad as I’ve seen, kiddo.”

Oh. Okay.

He then went on to tell me how relieved he was that we were taking care of this now, as unfortunately, I have already suffered irreversible nerve damage to my hand. Fucking priceless. Luckily, those much-sought-after handjobs for which I am so famous are delivered up with my right-hand. Oh, and don’t act so shocked; besides, I was acquitted of all those ridiculous charges against me.

At any rate, I get the stitches out in like two weeks — which shan’t be a moment too soon as far as I’m concerned. This maimed invalid horseshit is driving me berserk. It just doesn’t suit me. I’m a shitkicker and a thief. Well, not really a thief — but I do still rob houses.

Oh, and now that I am in LA, I am seeing a new Rheumatologist — who is the total fucking China White of the rheumy world. He has, I think, finally finally finally unearthed me a diagnosis. I’m a little nervous, but also relieved. Christ, just give me a goddamned name for this beast, already, wouldja — so’s I can kick its lousy ass. A few more tests and mine enemy shall have a face. I say fucking bring it.

Love Thing:

Head over heels. Still.

Family Life Thing:

Cute babies abound. I wish to bite their buttcheeks — and believe me, I shall.