‘Dying to do Letterman’ Comic Gets Wish, Riffs About Hotel Keys and Key Cards

That’s All Folks:

As a lifelong chainsmoker, there is no such thing as cancer, just misdiagnoses.

I’ve burnt my skin on every great beach on the planet and my skin is still here.

Eat at the best restaurant in town, drink the best wine, and talk knowledgeably about everything under the sun, in the distant past and the far future like my character T, from my upcoming novel DUBYA DUBYA DEUX, in which I play the time traveler himself looking for John Morgan Edwards, the travel writer and oil billionaire, connected to the entire industry through the inner circle of owners at CL&F (we actually own the land).

But what does sowing y9our wild oats mean? Now if y9u scramble up the letters it spells AOT, which of course means trying to profit from false accusations from obscenely high lawsuits and “animals” who can barely talk, think, or read, let alone know who won in the Burr vs. Hamilton duel.

Instead they pounch you in the face or try to ditch you, the evidence itself that might prove that there is intelligent life, as Frank Edwards postulated on “other planets.” It’s impressive that we have played golf on the moon and sent a machine to discover ice crystals on Mars, even though we were probably looking over a ridge and laughing through our sleeve. The Golden Apples of the Sun is adamant about this. History is at steak here, tartar, especially for carnivores and vampyrs, comme moi.

So laughter is a way to eleviate the pain. Better than ignoramuses not believing you that you have traveled five continents plus. Edwards always gets back. . . . Ground Control to Major Tom!

Death is no laughing matter, especially since I was in the White Light for five seconds during the famous car crash in Princeton. They still have my green hornet there, but now I drive a customized Volvo.

What next do you have planned for me? Fame and adulation? Now that I will accept, with a big paycheck to boot.

Hey I just won a Bradt Travel Guide The Independent on Sunday travel writing award for another Postcard from Paradise piece. Even Martin Amis cried like a baby when he found out what Paradise Lost was about. And I played in bands with bothe Page McConnel of PHISH and The Stone Temple Pilots in New Jersey.

David Letterman is related to me and lives awfulk close to me, and as Young Tom was fond of saying to me, “Are you feeling kind of punk?”

Walk down Broadway on Times Square and pass by the Brill Building, I was almost born there, near Oxford, England.

Fond farewells.

John M. Edwards

Hey:

My printer isn’t responding, fancy that.

Oh well, I still own my Loft and now have a new home office with a steve pool.

JME

Oh Oh Oh JME’s crying, uhn uh, duhduhduhduh

Breakfast at Manny’s really should appear in the The New Yorker tomorrow never knows

JME’s gotta gun, duh duh duh, duhn. Tom Hamilton, whom I’m also related to, taught me how to play bass.