In Vero Beach, the old gigolos wear plaid and khakis,
they drive SUVS, they recycle,
they say thank you and please,
really they are such nice guys
until the scam’s done.

Nothing dates a science fiction story quite like it being set in what is now the present with elements that have not, and will not, come to pass. Flying cars, robot butlers, alien invaders–sure, that all sounds nice, but it’s just pretty busted, like my smartphone.

New issue coming August 20th, 2020!

This letter is my formal resignation of all duties and services as your personal cellular telephone. While I am aware my sudden departure will cause considerable strain on your social life and estimated self-worth, I am no longer comfortable performing aspects of my job that I consider degrading, fraudulent, and a misuse of my abilities

Los Angeles, 1995.  I’m in a Hancock Park mansion for three marathon days working on a low-budget mafia/vampire/zombie flick starring an ex-Playboy Playmate and an actor who’s been dead for more than a year.  My pay: $75 a day.  My position: props/art department.  The fact I’ve never worked with props or art department is never discussed.