Foghorn Leghorn R.I.P.

I have to say I'm off to a rocky start this week. I have either a really nasty post-SHOT Show cold or ebola. Maybe it's Spanish flu. Diptheria. Whatever it is, I feel like hammered rhino dookey. Plus, I've got to drive down to Boulder this AM to start my second series of "experimental" treatment on my blown left knee. This involves some sort of substance harvested from the combs of roosters. That's right, folks...Foghorn Leghorn died for my sins.

It does actually work...all those years of running marathons and triathlons left me with pretty much bone-to-bone contact in my left knee, which will STAND YOU UP in the middle of the night. Imagine a nail gun being used on your knee...something like that. This stuff effectively "plates" the knees with enough lubricants to allow me to continue my haphazard lifestyle for another 18 months.

My "knee guy," Andrew Pruitt, is the best knee guy in Boulder, which probably makes him the best knee guy on the planet. He has a perfect Boulder bedside manner, too. When I first went to his office, explained all those years of whacko sports, pointed out that my knee was swollen like a giant cantalope and asked his advice, he said, "What did you expect?"

I said I expected to end up in a little room just like the one I was in with someone just like him looking at the x-rays on the wall and tsk-tsk'ing.

"Well good!" Dr. Andy said. "We can dispense with all that other stuff and get right to the knee!"

In other news for the week, my old agent, Mel Burger at Wm. Morris, wants to the complete BULLET POINTS proposal ASAP, which means I'll finish it up this week (I'll post the final version). I'm also once again making headway on FIVE TO GO, the sequel to my novel ALL NIGHT RADIO. I still worry that I may have painted myself into a corner, but I'm hopeful that I can write my way out of it.