If Books Weren't Dead, I Would Be Famous Right Now
For the last week I've been trying to find something in the news about books or authors to blog about. Why? Well, I'm glad you asked. Because I am now officially available in print -- like in a book store. And, no, I'm not talking about Vol. III of the ill-fated Cracked magazine where I delighted Janet Maslin of the New York Times with my ribald satire of Lindsay Lohan's vagina. I'm talking about being published in an actual book. With pages. And a cover. 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
Check out some more Gladstone over HERE and OVER HERE.