Samuel R. Delany was in the audience. I don’t know what he was doing in California – he lives in Pennsylvania, teaches at Temple University – but I don’t like him. So I said, “Hey, Delany. Fuck you.” He stood defiantly, gripped the tendrils of his long white beard as if for leverage, and replied, “Fuck you, Wilson! Fuck you, asshole!”
I read selections from Peckinpah: An Ultraviolent Romance, my short critifictional novel that combines an absurdist revenge tragedy with the (pseudo)biography and filmography of director Sam Peckinpah. I’m sick of reading Codename Prague and need a break. This has happened on all of my books tours – the one I did for Peckinpah in 2009 as well as Blankety Blank: A Memoir of Vulgaria in 2008 and Dr. Identity, or, Farewell to Plaquedemia in 2007. I don’t even think I’ve looked at the latter two books since their respective tours ended. After a short time, I don’t like to read what I’ve written – to and audience – or to myself. Especially to myself. The unrefined nuances that only become perceptible over time annoy me. But boredom is the main thing. That’s why I write so much. I can’t stand most published fiction, so I write fiction that I want to read. Unfortunately I get bored easily. I’m making an effort to write less, read less, and focus on watching more movies and TV shows. That’s my New Year’s resolution, in fact. I’d also like to start playing video games again. As a kid, I loved going to the arcades, and at home I more or less lived on my Atari and later my Commodore 64, but I never graduated to adult gaming mode. The last video game I remember playing on a regular basis was Sonic the Hedgehog at college in 1993. Afterwards I went to graduate school and basically gave up gaming to read and write. Now it is my goal to revert/mature to the male child-man that populates twenty-first century Amerika and lives on a healthy diet of beer, beef, increasingly diminutive lexicons, and Grand Theft Auto. The sleazier and bloodier and dumber, the better.