Some tension this morning with Ogden Ampleforth III's name. For some inconsolable reason I erred in the spelling of his name yesterday, but fortunately all records have been altered to reflect the proud history of his family, and we writers of pulp do not like to piss off reviewers. They might feast upon our corpses yet we are as nothing without them.
Ogden's review of Halibut's End Story on the Barnes and Noble was kinder than
I'd anticipated from him. Indeed he might even have understood the under
harmonies contained in that story. And too he might have come up with a few of
his own, which would be magnificent, because it would mean I am a true blue
bull-shitter. I should send the brave man a gift card of $3.17.