I get on a plane in a few hours to fly to NYC. It’s almost 15 hours with layovers, and with the six time zones crossed, I lose something like 21 hours.
I can’t tell you why I’m going there. I had to sign a vow of secrecy. It’s secret author stuff. SECRET. AUTHOR. STUFF. S.A.S.
Do you think this has something to do with the 911 commission saying that the attacks on the World Trade Center was a “failure of imagination”? Maybe they are bringing in all the people with overactive imaginations to fight terrorism, you think? Will it be like me and Neil Gaiman figuring out how sexy Goth babes can take over the Pentagon by the clever application of alienation, Dead Can Dance CDs, and body piercing? (“For the Love of God, Colonel, they’re pumping clove’s smoke under the doors, we’re doomed!)
That could be it, but I can’t say. They made me sign a thing not to tell, so I’m not. Forget it.
Thursday. That’s when you’ll know. That’s when I can tell you, maybe. As long as everything goes okay, that is.
Could it be that they want me in New York before the Republican convention, scouting the free speech zones? Maybe they want me on the first response team, thinking up snotting things to say between the speeches. Could be, but I’m not saying. (“You baby-killing doof-tool of an oil-whore! You know, political stuff.)
All I’m saying is, it’s big. Huge. (Imagine the Author Guy balloon making its way down Fifth Ave on the Macy’s Day Parade. Big, tan, goofy Author Guy balloon in a Hawaiian shirt, menacing the crowd, scaring the bejeezus out of the Underdog balloon.)
Thursday. If I can, I’ll hip you to the whole story. But for now, I can’t say a friggin word. Don’t even ask.