Uber-hip, literary website McSweeney's Internet Tendency has seen fit to include me in their latest offering: McSweeney's Joke Book of Book Jokes. How exciting is that? Pretty exciting. Just ask my bosses. They're extremely pleased about the much-needed credibility my literary achievement has brought to this blog. (Lex, thank you for the roses. Jack, the According to Jim DVD collection was nice too.) Sure, Ian Cooper was included in McSweeney's last book, and Jason "one blog post then quit" Roeder has a whole book out now, but screw 'em. They're not here. They took off to their ivory towers, leaving me to languish alone with my child-like, functionally illiterate co-bloggers.
So, yeah, I'm a pretty big deal. But for some reason, I thought I could only justify telling you if I found some story about another wildly important and famous writer first. But no one reports on writers anymore. I found one article about Tom Clancy -- his house deck burned down last week. Not much to support a post. God hates homophobes, I guess. Then I found a story about JK Rowling saying she contemplated suicide. Apparently, it was before she was famous. I had assumed it was after she saw the Jar Jar Binx-esque CGI that was used for werewolf, Mr. Lupin, in Prisoner of Azkaban. But that's about it. No good author news. In fact, DIGG doesn't even have a category for books or literature. Not even a category.
What does that mean? It means we live in a world where authors are no longer rock stars. Hell, rock stars aren't even rock stars anymore. Who are the rock stars today? Reality show contestants? I'm not sure, but I do know my inability to find a blog-worthy author story almost kept me from sharing such wonderful news.
But then I realized something. Who needs to link to a real story? That's for amateurs. Children. I'm the oldest Cracked blogger, and I'd better start acting like it. (I actually don't know if that's true. I know nothing about Chris Buckholz other than he's part robot and has no interest in speaking to me.) But as someone clinging to the edge of Cracked's demographic, I will assert myself now. And why not? I earned it. I own some vinyl LPs, I have a 401k, and my testicles have fully descended. Do you understand? I bought OK Computer the day it came out. I got bloodied up in a Soundgarden mosh pit in '93. And I know that my state income tax from the previous fiscal year can be claimed as a deduction on my current Federal return. So if I want to explain to you that I sold a 600 word piece to McSweeneys for $100.00, and it's now included in a soft cover anthology, then I'm going to do it. Does that make me the world's greatest satirist since Jonathan Swift? In a way, yes. Yes it does.
Some of you might be saying, "Is Gladstone being hyperbolic here?" And when I say "some of you," of course, I mean the readers. (Mikey, Rossie, and Dannie think "hyperbolic" is a word for some kind of chamber that can turn you into a super hero. Chris might use that word, but, like I said, he's a robot so...) But to answer your question, yes, I'm exaggerating a wee bit about the above. I didn't actually bleed in the Soundgarden mosh pit. The rest is all true. Or I don't live in Maine.
Check out some more Gladstone over HERE and OVER HERE.