Dear jolly innocent reader,

to really welcome you into the family at Harry-N-Sally Abrams Ink, New Amsterdam, celebrate with a free Macdonald’s Happy Meal, and have a company Tea party, at our loving children’s wing, Am-u-More-or-less, we want to blog on and on about some of our very favourite authors. Just to let you know too, ‘the kids are all right’, which they probably aren’t, or not the adult ones, down on the farm.

The delightful Laura Dora Miracle has been writing clever text messages again, she never staaaarps, and making us pots of Gold, so it really is a miracle, or myracle, if a little addictive (like heroin, Lydia Lunch, and sap, sad lawyers.) She’s great fun for a night on the town, and a true life priority. Michelmas Shiny-Buckle has been writing about his sisters too, grimmly and rather badly, who also happen to be his editors, which also makes us bucket loads, so God’s holy miracles abound. Hope is the end of a rainbow, let’s face it, and a smiling Leprechaun of language. That’s Irish, not the IRA, which we used to fund over here in the Dawn-Broke-on-the-Nothing-New-World, as part of our special relationships retirement and pension plan. (Don’t you have any shares in connected humanity?!) We have had another Book of Wonder just in too, or out, Peter the Great’s Nimble Eyes of Truest Love and Courage, and the tills are ka-chinging, the Covers aglowing, the Margehritas aflowin’, and joys ajumpin’, in the In-Cold-Blood, high wheat plains of truth, art, literature and David Rosen (who?). Alleluia, and God bless serious reading in America, and serious editing too!

Of course, we all bow a deep knee to the author of The Endless Saga of a Bad Whimpy Bun, which is also a film and fast food burger chain in the wicked UK, that Macdonalds wiped out, just like those creepy and uncivilised rainforests. That’s a very odd place too, unlike the sign at Katz’s, with Queens and Kings and things, we simply don’t understand, for being far too Ye Oldee Worldee, reciting poetry, and, well, somewhere ‘out there’, like Mogadishu. None of us have passports either, and never liked ourselves there anyhow, especially when we said we did, with the moist tincture of truth and love in our eyes, not even in Morrisey’s Ye Oldee Sloane Square restaurant. Oooooh, yes, yes, yes. Besides, a waiter was accidentally rude to the owner, so he closed the whole place down, like CBGB’s on the Bowery, truth, or a former publisher here. (That’s true).

We would write more about William Sleator, but he was real, talented, an alcoholic and probably had an affair with a Smurf, and if we let any grown-up reality into our blogs, or lives, we might have to reveal that we are all flawed human beings, even Stuart, Toberlerone and Fang. That Jasper Wells-Fargo has a private life, Brad Betterman rocks, Tamara Braces has big American teeth, far bigger and nastier now in smiling Denmark, and her greatest worshipper Susanna Van-York-Winkle was once good, literally, but spent too long in Sleepy Hollow, dreaming of the Dutch, and being far too tough, ruthless and ambitious for anyone’s good. Good on ya, girl. Harold Reeve’s-Tale is nicer than any of us, but the tale is done, like poor Geof Chaucer, whoever that bad British dude was, before the Oldee Brits were invented, while our boss really is the headless horseman!

We can’t say any of this, because we want to keep our jobs, we’d almost kill for those, certainly knife in the back in this climate, are all reeespectful and politically correct Americans, under the thumb of our internal military machine complex, and having a happy company Tea Party too, just for you, kids. But in the US of A, or certainly New Yorkie bar, half of us really do live in an extended episode of Prison Break. Which we all like to watch, tattooed and trembling over mom’s ever vengeful cupcakes, instead of paying attention at our own serious Book Club meets, to our one unread biography of Chairman Mao, (he liked the ladies, sweet man, and the cover’s kitsch), or the deeper cause of humanity and intelligence (not the CIA kind). Sail on, Ulysses, because hope’s not an anchor at all! Besides, we all carry side-arms, live on the Boulevard of Other Author’s Broken Dreams, under looming film posters of blokes who are rough with girls (it’s art), and carefully sought prints of Volcanoes, until we so ‘changed’ and moved to our own Upper Flip-Side, and might have to shoot you for being emotionally illiterate, reading other author’s text messages, not accepting the wished for war and peace we never made, or trying to tell the unbelievable truth, in the unbelievable Cyberverse. Norman Swarzkhopf was cleverer, in never humiliating the enemy you slept with, but it always was a war out there, just be peaceful about it!

There is one sad, bad, mad author we will never blog about, our most brilliant and creative, (yeah – right), although we don’t believe he ever had any, yeah rights, to any, yeah rights, kind of privacy or dignity either, let alone contracted support, unlike us guys: the celebrated branded animal author, bad lover and mass murderer, Davidov Clementi-Dowsing (DCD), because he is from the U of K, just an unforgiveable asshole, (mom and Brad said so – Janet), and only reminds us of Sirius Black, or Prison Break’s T-bag, at our happy, right-wing and quite insane, ‘side’-based American Book Club Tea Party. God help the free world, he didn’t help us to help free speech!

Actually we pretend to be Democrats, and very human and healing indeed, it sells so well nowadays, like ice-creams at a hole in the stone-wall, down in The Village, dreaming of Stardust kinda girls, but not at the back of 80’s bar-rooms, ‘Gee, Officer Krupky’. But over here love is an ugly, embarrassing word, like healing, and Democrat and Republican mean exactly the same thing in the Anti-Social Universe, which spreads and is ‘screw you, buddy, life’s unfair, owe ya nothing, grow up, shut up, and let’s shoot another polar bear book too, then grab all the oil ‘. God Bless Sarah Palin. (No, don’t, though she has good legs.)

It is a miracle ‘Dave’s’ still alive and kicking, twitching and whimpering really, like the way the Universe really ends, although we systematically destroyed his whole career too, never mind your fave characters, fans, that did not earn us enough, but then at the Adams Family, where he ‘liked’ to burn his britches, not to mention drop them, miracles never cease, God and humanity willing. Next week we hope to blog on and on and on about bitterness, human rights, belief, love, ‘literaturity’ in US text messaging, (Jeeeeese!) powerlessness, invasion by the Dark Lord, she who must not be named, seeing, sniffing out mendacity and nasty politics, not being outrageous on Mother’s Day or by phoning you at a restaurant, and why Morticia-Braces-Abrams is now the favourite company daughter, not gone from our good earth like poor, human, rock-n-roll Amy Winehouse, or responsible for anything real, ever. But always had a secret fear of, yet passion for, The Thing. ‘Probably runs in the family, Uncle Festor’. Hot weather and happy days ahead, as always, but watch those frightened boxes, we no longer live in, all together, side by side by Sondheim, and smile, we’re all on Candid camera! (Until we get fired, fire you first, even if you are contracted and ain’t any employee with any rights at all, then move to Chicago to do an odd remake of The Untouchables.)

The Mexican Mendoza-Line Doorboy

This is a spoof, so sue me, nah-nah-nah, although you already took everything worth having anyhow, except a sense of humOR. (Give it a rest – ed, you promised, you big liar!).

Reading notes for the Illegal department, lost in translation by Inhuman Resources, and Trish Kalculator: This is a work of fast fiction and has no relation or resemblance to food, nobody’s businessess, persons, living or killed off, Rights, Privacy, Abrams, love, loyalty, Lauren Myracle, Abrahams Lincoln, Thomas JaffaCakeSon, Friendship, Consensual Professional Relationships, Michael Buckley’s Sisters Grimm’s Editors, Belief, Humanity, Diary of a Wimpy Kid, Racehorse’s You Stop Backing, Contracts, Honesty, Hew, Screw and Glue (Wot’s that, we side-lined it too, like all your books and friends?!), Justice and the American Way, The Smurf’s Bluer Period, Emotional Torture, Cowardice, Meaning, Peter Nimble and his Fantastic Eyes, Joe ‘All the Talents’ Regal, Endangered Species, (like publishing, real authors, or even Polar Bears,) or anything that really happened, ever, even in a Painted Desert, the House of Breezes, not Braces, Evil Vanbrooo Court, Brandon Noonan’s psyche, or at The Luxor Hotel in Las Vegas, that did not stay there! Certainly not everything that came after. Impossible! A judge would not believe it anyway, and nobody else can, or frankly even cares. So kiss me, ya fool, but never, ever trust me.

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