What happened to the last couple of week’s column?
I heard that at TNB-San Diego you told people you have a new book coming out. Is that true?
It is true. My book comes out next month. I don’t really know why I bother, though. No one wants to read it. Especially me. I’m sick to death of the thing. Possibly the only vocation more worthless than being a novelist is being an advice columnist.
The rumor is that you have a book coming out. Shit, man, tell me the title and I’ll buy one.
What difference does it make? You can buy my book, or any one of the other 22,000 books being released next month and achieve essentially the same experience. Here is the basic framework of almost every novel written since The Tale of Genji: A main character (let’s call him Guy, although gender is irrelevant) whines for a chapter or two about the meaninglessness of existence. This whining can take the form of actual first person whining, or it can come in the guise of explosions, gun battles, serial killers, difficult births, cancerous mothers, mean fathers, child abuse, intellectual self-abuse, what have you. Then Guy goes somewhere, although the place is just a vehicle to meet his wacky family or best buddy, or other revealing segment of his past. Then the BAD THING happens, the one that will prop up Guy’s journey, or at least get us to the end of the book. Oh, at that point we will be introduced to GIRL (or other GUY, as the case may be) whom GUY pines for. GUY will continue to pine until the conclusion, even as the BAD THING is resolved around him. The last chapter will leave room for a sequel. The End. $26.99 well spent.
What’s the worst thing about America?
The death penalty.
Okay, if you’re Thomas Pynchon, then answer me this: What is the meaning of America?
Did you know that your DVR/cable box uses almost as much electricity as an average-sized refrigerator? It’s true. When you turn it “off” it does not actually go off, or even into sleep mode. The only thing that turns “off” is the LED display light. So it continues to draw massive amounts of power around the clock–as it is always in “ready” state. The cable companies did this because they knew people would complain if they had to wait for their boxes to load program information every time they turned the box on. Fair enough. But they also decided not to include a switch with a true “sleep” mode because it would have been a little expensive. So, to save that money, they decided it was easier to have a fake sleep, and, in the middle of a 30 year energy crunch, and the destruction of the environment, and the prosecution of two (or three, depending on your definition) oil wars–it was still preferable to pocket the cast instead.
This, Don, is the true meaning of America. Paralyzed by greed, drugged by convenience, ignorant of true suffering, floating in the urine-filled shallows while the rest of the world gets fucked.
Are you the Pope? And if so, let me be the first to say “Wassup, Ratzenberger!”
The Pope is, purportedly, God’s hand-picked representative on earth. Further, the transition between Popes is said to be dictated by the supreme being himself. Which means that an anti-Nazi Pope was removed by God six months before Germany invaded Poland, and replaced with a pro-Nazi earthly representative. Which means God was a member of the Thousand Year Reich in good standing. Which means the abuse of children which almost every Pope since has had a hand in both perpetuating–by moving offending and “rehabilitated” priests to unsuspecting parishes instead of excommunicating/prosecuting them–and facilitating, through a continuation of the policy of covering centuries of institutionalized child molestation up, is an extension of The Will of God. Ah, yes. Sins of omission, sins of commission. Sins of the most unforgivable crimes imaginable. Infallibility as crack.
If I were Ratzenberger, I would immediately give all the Catholic Church’s money to children’s charities, soak down the Vatican with lighter fluid, and then light a Cuban cigar.
How’s Candy? Why didn’t she come to TNB-San Diego with you? Also, is she really Candida Donadio, your wife and agent? I totally know you’re Thomas Pynchon.
Shit, I wish Candida Donadio was my wife. I would have gotten a much better deal on my last book. And the fucking publisher might have spent eight cents marketing my new one. Candy, actually, has recently left the home. We are trying a trial separation. Very little of that is your business, however. Although I will say that things took a turn for the worse when I started noticing a marked resemblance between my son and the postman. Coincidence? Perhaps.
Yes, things seem to be falling apart a bit. But at least Fabian is still with me. Every man needs a loyal amanuensis, just as every estranged wife needs the fear of a paternity lawyer slowly roasting both their conscience and soul.
Do you always have to have the last word?
Don’t Ask Me Anything.
I Don’t Want To Hear You Talk Shit. I don’t Care If You’re Vulnerable.
Go ahead, I know it hurts.
It hurts for all of us.
All contact info is entirely confidential.
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