I don’t know what it is with this blogging thing. Either I struggle to come up with something to write about, or I don’t have enough time to write everything and still keep things current. Now, I know I tell old stories a lot, but that’s from years ago. Telling an old story from last week just seems weird to me.
Of course. Now that I write that, the fact that it seems weird to me is weird to me.
Anyway. I have a lot to say lately. Right now I would like to talk about today’s horoscope. (This is a great example of a story that just wouldn’t feel right if I were telling it in, say, July.)
Do you fucking believe that? What kind of bullshit horoscope is that? Smoking Baby has mistaken me for Job (Juh-long O-buh) and is going so far as to poke at me from the Metro’s puzzle page. You know how much that puzzle page means to me. Plus, if you’re up to date on the blog, you know that I recently broke up with my mother, and I am positive that she was offended. If not by the actual breakup, then certainly by the incidents I mentioned during the breakup. At the very least she was offended by my language.
But the thing is:
Well the things are:
1) Sagittarians are infamous for their bluntness and for saying things with a tone that is frequently misinterpreted. We spend a lot of time either feeling guilty about hurting someone’s feelings, apologizing for hurting someone’s feelings, or unintentionally hurting someone’s feelings. So, in one way this can be seen as the Metro astrologer lady just being lazy. Because, on any given day that I’ve interacted with other people, there is a 1 in 5 chance that I’ve offended one of them without meaning to, or even realizing it. Being offended is disappointing. Ergo — lame ass horoscope.
2) My mother is also a Sagittarian. I wonder if she read her horoscope today.
I have another book for McSweeney’s/The Believer. It was in the hallway when I came in today and I didn’t even hesitate. I got my mail out of the box and scooped the package right up with it.
This one is from Amazon. I feel a little more at ease about opening this one because it’s from a corporation who is probably mistreating their employees and eating fresh monkey brain on their fifth trip around the world because they saw that gross guy on TV do it. Right? Fuck Amazon.
Yet. It is mail fraud. So, I’m not going to do it. However, I do want to draw on it again. And I intend to include the blog address. But, I need a new design for the blog first. Something custom and snazzy. And still kind of literarily dorky — you know. You have to consider your audience.
The audience I’m trying to attract is the same audience who enjoys buying (or selling) cans of Justice (No Pulp) after saying the Superhero Oath to a person in a booth eight feet above their heads. (“I [state your name] also known as [state your superhero name] …”)
So, I want the design to be cool and fun, but at the same time I want it to say, “This shit is brilliant. You should totally read it.” (And you should totally talk about it on your show.)
I’ve got to get this done quickly because my new mission in life is these envelopes. I plan to snatch, decorate, and forward every single one I see come in the building. I will write my blog name on them so many times that the McSweeney’s staff will have to check it out — if only to ask me to stop defacing their mail.
Ok. I’m figuring out how this thing is going to work for me. Erica found an article in the Times today on blogs that are being turned into books. For serious money. From serious publishers.
This is what I want. And not because I want a book deal. Because I want to be able to get Random House to pay for my Past Life Regression session with Shala Mattingly.A session with Shala is $300. But. If I could convince Random House (or McSweeney’s. I don’t care) that it was necessary for my research and that it should be covered under my expenses … how cool would that be?
Me: You know Dave. I’m really inspired to write right after a day at the Four Seasons Spa.
Dave Eggers: Susan. You are fantastic. I want you to write a lot. So, go to the spa for a week and put it on the card!
And I will write. And I will seek therapy near and far. I don’t care how many therapeutic ranches I have to be pamperd in to get my stories out, I’ll do it. If it takes a million foot reflexology sessions to recall even five sentences of a story, I don’t care. A hundred visits with wacky mediums and seers on Oxford Press’ dime — Bring it.