I did a parody of Ira Glass’ famous and lovely quote on storytelling and writing. It hardly makes sense. Enjoy.
“Nobody tells this to n00bs. I wish someone told me. All of us who eat food, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you eat stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you to buy that $400 Kitchen Aid mixer with all the attachments, is still killer. And your taste is why your food disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they take Tums, have violent bouts of diarrhea and quit. Most people I know who eat and make interesting food went through years of this. We know our food doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have (cinnamon). We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is just eat a lot of food. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will eat one sundae. It is only by going through a buttload of sundaes that you will close that gap, and your homemade froyo will be as good as Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta loosen your belt and fight your way through it.” -Roth Plastic
My poster I’ve been bitching about came today. YAY!
After a few obnoxious e-mails to the people at Random House (I’m sorry, I’m just paranoid) I got the poster for Maron’s new book, “Attempting Normal.”
Except it wasn’t signed. Fuck.
But I’m trying this new thing called “tipping the scales.” I have to try to have 51% good thoughts during the day, instead of you know, hating everything at every moment for the rest of all eternity.
It just so happens Marc (we’re on a first name basis because we are going to be best friends) will be doing signings in Boston for his book. Perfect opportunity for me to run up and kneel in front of his signing table like a child. (Remember that time I did that to David Sedaris?)
By “meeting” I mean, “I hope to be meeting David Sedaris this Sunday when I go to his lecture in Boston.” The sweat beads are already pouring down my bleached mustache. I’ve never been to an author’s event before, so I’ve been doing some prep work and researching on how David (I decided we need to be on a first name basis if we are going to be best friends) interacts with his readers. By all appearances he seems to a nice guy, a gentleman, someone who is concerned with the well-being of his readers. He really cares. OR he is a master illusionist, like the old man in The Prestige who carried the giant fishbowl between his legs. He commits to the act. Even if that’s true, I still find myself in an utter panic trying to figure out what I’m going to wear. Would he like my gold sparkle oxfords or the zebra ones? He could find them hellacious, daring, or even delightfully tacky. Either way, it could make or break our trip to Cabo together, where we share laughs in slow motion over breezy exotic music you hear in those resort commercials.
Regardless of what I’m wearing, even if it’s evening ball gown, no amount of unique style and flare could set me apart from the crowd of adoring fans better than my nervous stammer. I would call it a stutter, but that implies that you might have some control over your life. A stammer is for hillbillies in the back woods, licking their lips as you lotion your elbows, repeating words in incoherent sentences. It’s something I can’t really help, but I’m hoping it won’t get me escorted from the premises.
I’ll let you guys know how it goes, but I think as long as you have the news on, you’ll be able to get the gist.