Fan mail

Well, this is exciting. Just had this from one of my discerning readers:

From: Dixieleela@aol.com
To: blog@martysmith.com
Subject: Bloggers
This is the first blog cite that I have ever looked at and I can tell you I will never look this one up again. Howarrd Stearn you ain't.

An actual work by Jeff Koons

This is, frankly, puzzling. Granted, I don't expect to be liked by AOL users, especially ones with "Dixie" in their usernames, but of all the crappy blogs in all the domains in the world, she has to navigate into mine? And it's the first blog she's ever seen, like, ever? How does that happen?

Moreover, putting aside the fact that I am not Howarrd Stearn (or even Howard Stern), what's her beef? Not being Howard Stern is hardly a crime-- after all, people who are not Howard Stern outnumber those who are by about 6.5 billion to 1. This makes "not being Howard Stern" the second most common moral failing on Earth, after masturbation, and should hardly make me the target of censure.

The only thing I can think of is that maybe she's offended because in my last post I intimated that Jeff Koons could suck my dick. Well, all right, Leela, just for that, Jeff Koons can't suck my dick. So there.

I hope you're happy. At this very moment, Jeff Koons is sitting in his TriBeCa loft, weeping as he crosses out dates on a tear-stained travel planner. Don't worry, Jeff; maybe you could use that time to fly to Alabama or wherever and make one of your horribly ugly ceramic sculptures of Dixie here, who I'm sure is dripping with authenticity, not to mention pork fat.

Attack of the short, self-promoting post

What do Ayn Rand, Jeff Koons, and Fabrizio Moretti have in common? Well, for one thing, they can all suck my dick. But more importantly, they're all mentioned in an excitingly short humor piece by yours truly which has just been published in Kittenpants' Daily Scoop.

If you want to read it, use the link above-- Darci hasn't updated her archive since April, so there's essentially no way to find it except from here after the day in question has passed. Which it has. (Bitch, moan, whine.)

Go join your gang yeah!

Ladies and gentlemen, I have caved. I am now officially like every other blogger: I am, as of this post, blogging from my cubicle on company time. This once-proud free spirit, who boasted so casually of never rising before 3pm, has joined the faceless ranks of downtrodden corporate serfdom.

After 20 years of continually worrying about the electric bill (it's the same bill, actually; it was due on April 12, 1984 and I've been putting it off ever since), I have finally broken down and traded a walk-on part in the war for a lead role in a cage.

More precisely, I've traded a walk-on part in the cultural zeitgeist for a lead role in a cube. It's no secret that I've long had a hankering for glory-- I publish articles from time to time, start magazines, bands, etc. But now it looks like I'm willing to trade all that for a living wage and a dry hole to curl up in at day's end.

Of course, I've only been at this for three weeks, so it may be possible that I can continue my laughable efforts at cultural relevance even while working. I'm just not used to having 11 hours (counting the commute) shaved off the top of my waking day. Add in my standard 4 to 5 hours of procrastinating, and by the time I get down to work I've already been asleep for two hours.