Origin Story: Lies about Michael Crichton

Way back in the dark ages of 2008–a year sure to be called, henceforth, “The Fuckening”–my original designs for titleofmagazine were largely fermented cubicle thoughts merging pop science blurbs with lies about authors whose names appear in raised type on their books’ dust jackets.  I had fantasies of gently ribbing airport bookstore gods such as Dean “Groping Golden Hand” Koontz and Michael “Gigantor” Crichton into turning my life into a treeless version of The Most Dangerous Game. But alas, Crichton’s heart gave out.  The man was 6’20” and given to flogging the writing muscles until they squeezed out the purest extracts of commuter-ready techno-thriller and such a strain finally took its toll.  He died the undisputed king of jamming the Clif’s Notes version of modern science up a tyrannosaurus’s ass and then rolling in its cash scented excretions.  A wild ride indeed. So instead of a running joke, I offer […]