Of Poo, And Such
Well, that was good timing. No sooner had I posted a blog about my
irrepressible zest for life than the rumblings began. At first I
just thought I was hungry. It was dinner time, so I popped down the
street and bought myself a hamburger and chips. It was good. It was
tasty. And a couple of hours later, it began an emergency evacuation.
I don’t remember having had gastro before. And I’m pretty sure that I would remember this. This was the single most disgusting experience of my life. That’s why I feel compelled to share it with you. Not because I think you want to know. God, no. If you’ve got any sense at all, you’ll walk away right now, sit in the corner, plug your ears with your fingers, and shout, “La la la la!” until I’ve stopped talking. No, this isn’t for your benefit; this is because I went through such a colossal life-changing experience that I need to talk about it to believe it really happened.
Not too long ago, I was talking to a friend about colonic irrigation—long story—and she mentioned that the average person carries around four pounds of compacted fecal matter. Yeah, sorry, now you’ll never be able to not know that again, either. Well, on the positive side, I am fairly confident that I am no longer one of those people.
One thing I found particularly remarkable was how big my stomach must be. I mean, just judging from the available evidence, I must be usually carrying around a shopping bag’s worth of food and associated juices in there. Well, mostly juices. But still. Unless it was expanding on exit, I just don’t see how everything could fit.
Jen and Fin both got gastro as well, but less spectacularly. In fact, Fin’s hardly seemed to bother her: she had a couple of yucks, then got on with business. I suppose when you’re a baby, fluids periodically rushing out of your body without your permission is just part of your daily routine. No need to write a blog about it.
But me, I have a whole new appreciation for the human body. No, wait, “appreciation” isn’t the right word. Fear. That’s what I meant. I’ve been reminded that I’m not completely in charge of this thing; that, under certain circumstances, something else is going to take over the controls for a while. And that’s an alarming idea. Although, boy: what a show!
32 commentsIn defense of living
I don’t want to die.
This means I’m immature. At least, according to the world’s great thinkers. If we’re to call ourselves mature, intelligent adults, apparently we must each come to terms with the things we cannot change in life, and one of these is that it must inevitably end. If you refuse to accept this, it’s a sign that you are still in a child-like state.
But come on. Isn’t the only reason that we die because we haven’t got the technology right yet? I once heard an Australian scientist, Dr. Kruszelnicki, say that the current generation was probably going to be the last to die or the first to live forever. I tell you what, if I miss the immortal generation by a few years, I’ll be pissed.
I don’t get why more people aren’t upset about this. I mean, I’ve read angry letters to the editor about cabbages. Where’s the outrage about the inevitability of death? Seriously, which offends you more: petrol prices, or the idea that one day people will either burn your body or bury it?
Okay, there’s the afterlife argument. I’m not convinced. First, even if you buy the idea that after you die, you go to a better place, that strikes me as a little too much like, “Hey guys, let’s ditch this party; I heard that other one’s way better!” I’m sorry, but I’m enjoying this party. I don’t want to travel halfway across the city only to discover that all the cool people already left or we got the address wrong or the driver decides it’s kind of late so maybe we should just go home. “Let’s go to the other party” never works, and I don’t see why it should start working just because I’m dead.
Nope, I want to stay here. It’s not because I have a phobia about death. Actually, I don’t see how you can have a phobia about death, because a phobia is an “irrational fear,” and I can’t think of anything more rational to be frightened of than imminent nonexistence. But no, it’s not that I’m scared, exactly. It’s that I think it stinks.
Can someone do something about that, please?
The Brave New Art Form of lonelygirl15
So lonelygirl15
turns out to be a fake. What looked like the intimate video diary of
a 16-year-old girl named Bree is actually “a new art form,”
courtesy of three L.A. filmmakers. And Bree is really a 19-year-old
actress from New Zealand named Jessica Rose.
Some of the thousands of fans who followed her videos on YouTube are upset. Some are angry—very angry. Some don’t see the problem. Some think the videos are more interesting now that they know they’re made up, and some feel like they lost a friend.
Me, I’m voting this a neat piece of marketing.
True, they’re not selling anything. That’s the good news: this didn’t turn out to be an ad for acne cream or a movie. The creators say:
We want you to know that we aren’t a big corporation. We are just like you. A few people who love good stories. We hope that you will join us in the continuing story of Lonelygirl15, and help us usher in an era of interactive storytelling where the line between “fan” and “star” has been removed, and dedicated fans like yourselves are paid for their efforts. This is an incredible time for the creator inside all of us.
It’s funny that people who created something so interesting could write something this dumb.
lonelygirl15 didn’t succeed because it told a compelling story. It succeeded because people thought it was real. Without the deception, there’s nothing special. The filmmakers knew this; they went to a lot of trouble to keep up the pretense, to the extent of posting personal replies, as Bree, to people who wrote in. They built fake relationships with fans. And now some of those fans feel like pauldonald:
the reason why im annoyed is because people are going to use this website to try to boost there acting career so now you cant trust anyone on youtube and i do wish bree was real because i fell in love with the character. im not sure if i like jessica rose coz from the pics i have seen she seems like the total opposite of lonelygirl coz she seems like a easy party girl but even though this is fake im not mad at the person who made this even though it was a bit of a spit in the face.
This is what makes it marketing, not storytelling. Storytelling doesn’t abuse its audience. Without the bit at the start that says, “This is made up,” it’s not storytelling; it’s just lying.
Every fiction writer in history has probably been annoyed by how much more power a “true story” seems to have. But that’s the deal we make: we admit up front that our tale isn’t true, then we desperately try to make it as authentic as possible. Doing it the other way around—claiming to have a true story and filling it with fiction—that just pisses me off. Storytelling? A new art form? Give me a break. When you agree to the deal, then you can be storytellers. Until then, you’re marketers.
How Stripy Is My Jumpsuit
My daughter has a thing for buttons. She’s fascinated by them.
Especially buttons that light up or make a beep when you press
them—those can keep her occupied for ages—but keyboards
are fun, too. She seems to have a particular talent for finding
obscure functions or keypress combinations; she’s sent text
messages, made phone calls, and locked up my computer.
Now Fin has made a movie. She was playing with the mobile phone, and it has a camera function, and somehow she recorded a short video clip. I have no idea how.
I don’t want to hype it up too much, because she is only 12 months old. But I don’t think I’m exaggerating to say that it’s probably the most insightful, spiritual, brilliant, and meaningful piece of cinema ever made. The ending… well, I won’t spoil it. Judge for yourself.
If you’re not seeing the vid above, you can view it here or here.
Closer, my pet. Closer…
My publisher just made a big mistake. They e-mailed me a list of the
places they’re thinking of sending me on my 2007 US book tour,
and I said, “How about I put this on my web site and ask what
people think?” And my publicist, Martin—I think he must be
new; it’s the only explanation—said, “Good idea.”
What Martin fails to realize is that I have just cleverly arranged for everyone who will be upset that I’m not coming to their town to be angry at him instead of me.
What Martin should have done is what all my previous publicists did: present the schedule only when it’s nailed down. That way I’m left helplessly trying to explain to irate, neglected fans why I’m visiting four cities on the west coast but none between L.A. and New York.
Instead, what we have here, ladies and gentlemen, is a tentative schedule. And the publisher wants to know what you think. So go ahead! And remember: there’s no reason they couldn’t send me to every town in America, if they cared enough!
Okay, that’s not true. I was exaggerating for comic effect. The number of cities is probably fixed, due to financial reasons and the fact that I’m not that famous. But if you’ve got a good reason why they should send me to one place and not another, post in the comments here and Martin will read it.
Here’s the list:
- Boston
- Chicago
- Ann Arbor
- Dallas
- Austin
- Denver/Boulder
- San Francisco
- Either Madison or Los Angeles
It is actually very cool for a publisher to do this. In fact, I’ve never heard of one asking fans where they’d like an author to visit before.
Update: Whoa! That’s a lot of comments. I found out that Martin is on vacation this week, so I guess he’ll come back to a nice surprise. Wait, I mean, “violent argument.” That’s it.
Inscrutable Germans
In
the comments of my last blog, member Ralf observed that
there’s a German edition of Company coming out, and
they’ve posted the cover online. I’m glad I have people like
Ralf to tell me these things. He’s more up-to-date with what’s
happening in my career than I am. From now on I’ll get him to
write my blogs.
The German cover is very interesting, because I have absolutely no idea what it means. Now, I’m used to foreign publishers making inexplicable changes that I can only hope make more sense in their native language and culture. Especially if it’s the Germans, who are yet to publish a book of mine with anything even vaguely resembling the original title. (Syrup became “Fukk” and Jennifer Government is “Logoland”.) Because “chefsache” does not, as you might assume, mean “company.” It means “top priority case.”
My guess is that it must be common German management-speak, like “action items” or “Let’s take this offline” or “We’ve outsourced your job to India.” But the cover is more perplexing. I honestly can’t figure it out. And I’m usually good at this kind of thing. Once in high school I sat for an IQ test where they gave me sets of cards with pictures on them, and I was asked to arrange them to make logical stories. I scored lower on that test than anyone. My problem was that I kept seeing logical stories that weren’t there: I would arrange my cards in a sequence that made perfect sense to me—that spun tales of pathos and drama, of tragedy and triumph—and look proudly at the teacher only to see her eyes flick down to the answer sheet, and return, sympathetically, to meet mine. After that, they wouldn’t let me near sharp objects.
But this one is a mystery to me. Is that guy exploding? Why? And why is he wearing sunglasses? Help me out here: what do you think this cover means?