Having finally convinced someone to chair a doctoral study over William Burroughs, as I made my first steps out the door toward my Ph. D¾without explanation or apology¾the sucker backed out. While hypocritical objectivity echoed through the halls of higher learning in the wake of a homosexual junkie who penned pornographic sci-fi detective novels, I realized that jumping ship might not be such a bad idea, so I did.

Amid all the rigmarole¾like a good academe¾I scribbled very dry studies of overblown authors (I got so good at cookie-cutter interpretation that I was translated (into Greek no less), anthologized, & even cited at one of their big, nationwide get-togethers where they all sit around & read to one other like preschoolers) as I played the part of contortionist, wriggling around the web of red tape that lined the doorway of every classroom in which I had to teach. But little did they know that I was naughtily scrawling fiction on the sly while watching¾tsk, tsk¾horror movies.

So, after the pedantic dust had settled, I landed a gig with The Horror Review, which has me watching around 150 films a year as I bleed circa 250K words annually. But¾get this¾like a dumbass, I foolishly named 2006 the year of “365 Days, 365 Films.”

Needless to say, I won’t do that again.

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