I Have Had Charlie Cryogenically Frozen

Hello out there in Blog Land.

I haven't written as much as usual. But Charlie hasn't written anything at all.

Because he can't. He's cryogrenically frozen.

I grew tired of his whining and complainng that I didn't like his work, that I stole all the spotlight, that I got the best Blog-Groupies, so I snuck into his house, found him in the shower singing old Erasure songs, kidnapped him (or rather, adultnapped him), stuffed him into a burlap sack, beat him a few times with the an 8-track player, carted him over to "Chillin", and all-night cryo clinic, zapped his ass cold, and stuffed him in a meat locker.

So don't expect anything from him soon.

We're still writing, of course. Well, I am. Charlie's thinking about things as best he can at 2 degrees Kelvin. I'm working on projects and projects. Producer Dude is making noises once again about a contract, about making Seige. Noise is just that, however, until the payola is recieved and the cameras roll.

Now, when I say we are writing, I of course mean that we are writing only so much as it is allowed with the current Writer' Strike. We can write for ourselves, which is what we're doing. We can actually write for Producer Dude, because he is so small and unimportant that he isn't a target of the strike. See, there's a list of companies that you can not work for, and it's really, really long. And yet Producer Dude isn't on it.

That's right, we're in the corridors of power now, baby!

So anyway, there's your update.

Choke on it.