It's 6 AM and we have tried for the last three hours to get back to sleep and don't even have the consolation of having enjoyed a cigar and a bottle last night.
The weather here in New Jersey this month has been truly crappy, so no Saturday night tobacco and liquor fueled sojourn. We've had four Arturo Fuentes this year. A touch ahead of where we'd like to be, just a touch. Fuck it, it's all genetics, right.
Our father and his dog are getting cabin fever and we asked him if he wanted to come down here and be cooped up with us. Mr. Stroock thought of three screaming blondes and wisely decided thank you, no. We did our bit at least.
The Great Nuclear War of 1975 is 30,000 words. We're getting primed to write The Battle of Prudhoe Bay next month. That will get us to 40,000, easy. From there the book moves into the spring of '76 and deals with technical matters. How to hold elections? Wouldn't the 4th of July be a case for some sort of national pep rally? We've had the president dealing with a few foreign matters. The Israelis hall off and nuke Egypt. Seeing the precedent, South Africa drops of couple of bombs in Angola. Rockefeller is pissed. How far do we take this? The election? 1980. A postscript history written in the year 2000?
Nerdelandse, what can we say? It's looking good. It's looking real good. We will, repeat, will be able to get it to Debbie in May. Our cover artist is already at work. We're going to have our artist neighbor and friend draw some maps for us. He did the art in The Austrian Painter.
We're in pretty good shape to write our Cosmonaut short story next month as well. We want that compilation wrapped up. One more story after the big giant commie thingy. As our European vacation plans have been nuked by the Politburo in Beijing, we'll have more time on our hands this summer. Sneak in and do more work on Pershing's War?
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