Archive | 11:27 am

How To Get Book-Famous

22 Aug


I’m reading this book right now. 

…Because she got famous doing what I wanna do, which is essentially to turn this whole blog thing into my main income.  Or at least a decent supplemental one. 

It’s first week out, the book was on the NY Times Bestseller List…which I think we can all agree is amazing…and she now travels the country on her publisher’s dime, to sit at tables and sign her name inside book covers, while reaping real-world scenario materials for her next Top Seller.

I could handle this kind of life, if it accidentally on purpose happened to me, is what I’m saying.

…Of course, it never would happen.

…Because what I have discovered while reading her words out loud, (in-between the times I can’t, because I’m crying too hard in hysteria and peeing my pants a little), is that ultimately, I just did not have a fucked-up enough childhood to qualify the kind of success she so rightly deserves.

My Dad never ONCE stuck his finger up the butt of a dead rat, thus transforming it into a very disturbing puppet.

I may NOT have had a lot of money growing up, but Mom never rubberbanded bread sacks to my feet in lieu of snow boots and sent me off to school that way.

…I never lived in an asbestos lean-to, connected to my Father’s taxidermy shop…found dead carcases with their entrails taking up the whole bathtub, or helped run a transient hotel for orphaned and wounded wild animals that at any second could turn and rip my face off.  Just “because.”

…People like David Sedaris, Augusten Burroughs and this chick, are almost guaranteed book sellers, on account of their totally unbelievable upbringing and various proceeding mental breakdowns and coping mechanisms.  They are like the Royalty of making the best out of really screwed up and scarring childhood situations.  In this kingdom, I’m but a mere Pageboy or Scullery Maid in comparison.

Not that “competing” against these people, is the goal…but there is definitely a “niche-following” involved in Memoir Essaying and I think I lack the total package deal to fit in properly.  I can certainly go off on sick and dark circumstances, while generously peppering my personal philosophies on the proper shelving of movie collections, and organizing of junk drawers…but I don’t think that’s quite enough meat in the stew of requirement.  The best ammo I have to use in this case, involves The Brothel here…and unless I want to get my ass sued off (which is no small feat with the podonkodonk that I’m sportin’) …it’s pretty much off the board when I go public with who I really am.

…Which is too bad, really.

It all comes down to the fact that I was horribly abused, neglected, warped, and fucked with by the wrong people.  If it was my PARENTS, I could write it all out and make a mint, (with the understanding that at least part of the sales of said book would go toward keeping them in a manner to which they would become “accustomed.”)  But it wasn’t. It was my JOB that did it.

…There is no dotted line of permission, or amount of pay-out, that will allow me to pass onto the next round of using what I have been forced into while working here.  Unless said book is a total unqualified success equal to Jenny Lawson’s Freshman work…I will be immediately fired and totally unemployable for the rest of my life…due to the fact that (apparently), I spend all my down time dissing my place of business surreptitiously with wild abandon.  Even if it’s true.

…I mean, I’d get fired even if the book was a giant success, true…but I would care a lot less in that instance.  Until the legal paperwork would start flying in, and I’d find myself being sued for roughly the exact amount of money which the book would have accrued, thus leaving me pretty much where I’m sitting right now, only not literally, and maybe a little more famous for it.

…Like Donald Trump every time he goes bankrupt again.

I don’t think I could handle that level of almostness in making something of myself, then lose it all.

…But then, if it spiralled me into some great, mistrustful, fist-shaking-at-fate rebellion over the whole ordeal…I could write a Memoir about that.

…Maybe I should look into it.


Senior Envy

22 Aug


Sometimes I feel jealous of Senior Citizens.  I tell myself that someday I’ll reach those special years of amazement as well…but then I’ll think of the powers they yield and start to get impatient.

I’m jealous how they can wear pajamas to the grocery store, and not even think twice about it. 

…My Gram used to do it all the time.  There was this tiny market down town?  It smelled of raw beef and cardboard boxes, and when you went inside you’d know every person in every aisle, cuz everyone was a regular.  And for some reason, Gram (who was usually spiffed out in fully coordinated blouse and slack outfits), could walk through that store on a Tuesday morning, wearing a mumu in her house slippers with a scarf around her head, not bothered in the least by it.  These are the same people, mind you, whom she would fret about seeing a spill-stain on her new jacket on Friday, because the coffee cup had a leak.  The rationalization totally escapes me.  But I still wanna be able to do it.

I’m jealous how they can fall asleep anywhere, at any time.

…It takes me forever to fall asleep.  I can lay there for hours with my head just ticking away…thoughts, thoughts, thoughts…on a nonstop repeat.  Generally I only get about five hours in a night…sometimes six. But Seniors can fall asleep within fifteen seconds, whether they’re in a doctor’s office, the DMV, a football stadium, or even standing in line waiting for check-out. ( I’ve seen it.) Such power, and talent. I wanna be able to do that.

I’m jealous how nothing in life embarrasses them.

They can just fart in public.  Just fart.  Just like that.  What the hell do they care what you think about it?  Also they spend whole lunches together talking about things like their personal diseases and anatomy parts that don’t work…raising the stakes on one another like they’re betting their incapacities, medical procedures and ills, in a game of poker. “I SEE your psoriasis, and raise you an enema!” Or they’ll glory in how good their bowel movements are…grading them on a scale of awesomeness against seventy years.  “This one time, in ’47, I had just the greatest BM ever!” ” I had one in ’63 that completely changed my whole life, practically…!”

I’m jealous of their temper tantrums.

…Like small children, they seem to get a special “pass” for this.  Crotchety old men are like an American institution.  And everyone who has ever worked in any service industry, has been railed at at least once, by a sixty-five pound, blue-haired, ninety-year-old woman with a smokers rasp.  They are totally allowed to be giant dicks to anyone at any time, and we just sorta go along with it.  Why?  Because.  It’s in the constitution or something.

I’m jealous of their money management strategies.

People think Seniors aren’t up with the times, don’t understand the concepts of things like “inflation” and “alternate percentages.”  Please.  These people have lived through five wars, four economic depressions, countless droughts, fires, Tsunamis, hurricanes, Medicare, and the end of the world at least ten times.  They know what’s going on.  And they know how to make every fucking buck they’ve got, count. Can you blame them?! They are in a position of knowing from experience that it’s only a matter of time before shit hits the fan again.  So while we dance around with grins slobbered on our faces, buying rounds for everyone and using dollar bills for toilet paper in the high-times, they’re counting out fifty-cent tips for the asshole who forgot to refill their coffee cup at Dennys. Why? They understand the economy better than you think.  They’ve had to reinvent it the the last sixty times.

I’m jealous of their knowledge.

…These people know everything about everything. They’re better than the internet.  Go ahead. Test them:
Question: “Who was that one person in that movie, with whatserface, with all that rain?”

Answer: “Gene Kelly.”

Question: “How many terms was FDR in office?”

Answer: “Elected four times, died in last term, April 12,1945.  Was sixty-three.  Just a damn kid.”

Question: “How do you get out stains?”

Answer: “Dish detergent for oil, club soda for red wine, white vinegar for tomato-bases, add some salt for perspiration. Ink stain: with rubbing alcohol, isopropyl for grass and paint.”

Question: “What’s the difference between a B17 Bomber and a B29?”

Answer: “About twelve tons in payload, 70 MPH, 25 feet in length, and 1,250 miles in range. I know cuz I flew both of ’em.”

Question: “Why Velveeta cheese and SPAM?”

Answer: “No expiration date. Ever.  I think I still have some cans from 1956 if you wanna snack?”

Question: “Greatest invention of all time?”

Answer: “Sex.”

…And I am jealous how they can sit and appreciate things.

Old men will forever populate benches facing out into oceans of abyss. Little old ladies will never cease congregating in tea socials to gossip and munch in good company, like a park full of pigeons.  Grandparents will eat their grandbabies with their eyes and see the resemblance of every ancestor you have ever had in them.

…A spot of wine with a view.

…A summer sunset…

…Perching on a porch swing, just watching the people passing by. 

Taking a Sunday drive at leisure as the commuters honk and ride their bumpers the whole time. 

…They’ve perfected establishing a single snapshot of a moment…like they’re filling the rest of their photo albums up to take with them to whatever comes after all of this “living on earth” stuff.

I think we forget to do that. 

…I think it’d be good to learn it earlier in life.

I think someday I’ll get there.

…And I’ll watch the world just passing by and think:

“Sometimes I’m jealous of young people…”

…Which is about when, one of ’em will do something really stupid

And I’ll shake my head and smile to myself.

“Scratch that.”


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