Haven't been here for a while, largely because there has been some Classified Shit going on that I just can't write about, and when I can't write about what's on my mind, I don't write at all.

But we're getting down to the wire, here.

The Great Friggin' Gonzo Revenge of the Sith Tour gets under way a week from tomorrow, and here's the latest:

1) I still don't have an official itinerary. I know what cities I'm going to because I downloaded the schedule from The Force.Net (and I got a supplementary list from Colleen when we talked on Tuesday). But I don't have flight or hotel info. At all. Colleen? You listening?

(Though to be fair, I'm teasing her a little. She only promised me the itinerary by the end of this week, which in Publisher Time means before the close of business next Thursday.)

2) Though the book seems to be all over the goddamn Internet by now, nobody's sent an advance copy to ME . . . which means I get to go through security checks with a one-way ticket. Loads of fun. "No, REALLY, I'm on a BOOK tour . . . well, I don't have the book WITH me . . ."

3) I am damned close to broke. It's been a (to paraphrase George Harrison) long cold lonely fucking winter. [EDITED BY THE BORG. RESISTANCE IS FUTILE.]

4) My meds are only half working. I'm mobile and functioning and will remain so, but can I just say . . . ow . . . ?

5) The AOL/Moviefone tour blog thing is still supposed to be happening, except they haven't gotten the software to me yet, and we're kinda running out of time.

6) I continue to maintain, despite how the above may read, my Jedi calm. This shit is entirely out of my hands; I leave success and failure entirely to the whims of the gods, the Force and the Random House publicity department, in that order. I will be squeezing every drop of enjoyment from my 15 minutes . . . er, 30 days . . . of nascent celebrity, and I continue to believe that somehow everything will work out just fine.

Because somehow it usually does.

It's not unlike working a blisteringly busy shift at a high-end restaurant -- which, as many of you know, I have done many, many times in my long career. When you're in the middle of it and things look like they're about to start going wrong, it seems like the fucking Apocalypse. But at the end of the shift, you count your money and go home. Meanwhile, nobody died.

Which is the main reason I became a bartender instead of a cop, a doctor, a fireman or a soldier.

And so far, nothing has ACTUALLY gone wrong. It's just the damned full-body migraine that makes it feel like it's going to, and I'll get over that by the time I'm on the flight to Raleigh.

Tally Ho!

Geekgasm

Okay, I've officially had my first REVENGE OF THE SITH geekgasm.

I watched GWL's interview on 60 MINUTES last night, and thus got to see my first Actual Glimpses of The Duel. And some of the new Capital Ship combat.

Oy.

Listen: I KNOW EVERYTHING THAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN IN THIS FILM, AND I CAN'T FUCKING WAIT TO SEE IT.

I mean, let's face it: even you spoiler-free bastards are kiddin' yourselves, y'know? You already know everything important that's going to happen, too. You just don't know how it's going to look.

Well, neither do I.

But I got a hint of it last night.

Oy.

Oy muckersplatter freakin' geVALT.

Warming Up

I am now officially In Training for the Great Friggin' Gonzo Revenge of the Sith Tour.

For the next few days I'll will be testing the muscles of my right hand in a wholly unfamiliar way . . . signing a THOUSAND FREAKIN' BOOKS.

The Special Edition, doncha know.

But it's a good way to get in shape.

Writer's cramp is a serious danger for typin' pussies like me, if I have to be signing three or four hundred books at a crack, maybe twice a day, five or six days a week . . .

Oh, my poor hand . . .

Your heart's just pumping pisswater for me, ain't it?

Ahh, the price of (almost semi-)fame . . .

Again with the misinterpretations . . .

Never did I write while under the influence. Never ever ever.

Well, okay, once.

I wrote a play in college, a screwball comedy called A PERFECTLY RATIONAL ADJUSTMENT, in which the main character was a famous playwright who'd gone bonkers and now believed he was the main character in one of his own plays (which were all screwball comedies . . .).

I did the first draft -- working late at night, after all homework and such was complete -- by downing three shots of Bacardi 151 and then typing as fast as I could until I couldn't see the keys any more (usually about twenty minutes to half an hour). Then I'd go pass out.

But that was only the first draft. And, by the way, it was terrible. I had to rewrite it six times. Sober.

Anyone who's taken a close look at my work -- especially my Caine books -- will, I think, understand that stories of such intricacy are not to be attempted while under the influence of anything except caffeine (in small, regulated doses) and massive amounts of tortilla chips. And sometimes chocolate.

The cocktails were poured only after all work for the day was complete. And they may be again.

A lot depends on how my body adjusts to the meds.

We shall see.

I'm Ruined

I'm Fucking Ruined.

They're gonna throw me out of the Real Serious Writer's Club.

That's right: I've quit drinking.

Not by choice, I assure you. It was an experiment, at the behest of my beloved wife, to dry out for a while and see if avoiding the whole Scotch/bourbon/cognac Devil's Triangle helped my migraine syndrome.

Well, it didn't.

However . . . something in my metabolism (or my meds) has changed in the meantime. Everything tastes like crap. I can't even finish a solid dram without getting queasy -- shit, I can't even THINK about it without getting queasy.

Boy, I am in trouble now.

How am I gonna survive the Great Friggin' Gonzo Revenge of the Sith Tour stone cold rumphumpin' SOBER?

All I can do is start praying to Dionysios that I get over this before April 2 . . .