June 28, 2005
Opening Up a Rose-Colored Can of Whup-Ass
All is right in the world. At least, in the world of M.J. Rose. Once again, her blog, Buzz, Balls & Hype, is back to ruling the roost as the highest rated blog at Publishers Marketplace, after decisively bitch-slapping upstart blog Hell Toupee back down the charts. Since Ms. Rose's return to the throne last Sunday, the highest rank Hell Toupee has been able to reach is a paltry number three.
No sooner had PM's blog rankings returned to their natural state than the phone began to ring at the lushly appointed Hell Toupee compound. When my assistant picked up - okay, actually I picked up, but that was because I didn't want to seem ostentatious - I was unaware that on the other end of the line was none other than M.J. Rose herself, calling to offer her condolences for the tragic end of my short-lived reign of literary terror. Our conversation went something like this:
I Just Called to Say I Crushed You
Author's note: At this point in the conversation, I feel compelled to share something with you. Something so shocking, so earthshaking, so like something that Johnny Cochrane could probably come up with a really cool rhyming slogan for, you know, if he weren't dead and all... aw, hell. I lost my train of thought.
Anyway, let's call this Exhibit A.
All will become clear momentarily. Now, back to the conversation.
In Other News
It's coming.
Hell Toupee waits with bated breath (which is not, it turns out, breath that smells like worms, or shiners, or any other form of fish bait, something that would have been REALLY nice to know before I bet that guy in the bar fifty bucks that it was - but I digress...) for The Ultimate News Event.
I'm talking about the coup de grâce (or maybe coupe de ville - I never was real clear on the distinction) of what will become known as the Summer of the Shallow.
What could that be? It's simple: a single news story on CNN that involves all of the following:
• Tom Cruise
• Paris Hilton
• The runaway bride
• A severed finger served in a meal at a restaurant
That would do it. That would be the Grand Slam of the Insipid.
Throw in a Pamela Anderson or an Anna Nicole Smith, and we'd be caught up in a mental and moral vacuum, a whirling vortex of people and events so trivial, so mind-numbing, so completely without any substance whatsoever, that I suspect the United States would simply implode; sucked into a cultural black hole generated by the complete absence of anything that mattered. Talk about your weapon of mass destruction.
Fortunately, I'm not cynical or anything.
The Daily Haiku
A poem commemorating the meteoric rise and apocalyptic fall of The Blog That Would (Not) Be King:
Nicely Put:
Constant reading will pull you into a place (a mind-set, if you like the phrase) where you can write eagerly and without self-consciousness. It also offers you a constantly growing knowledge of what has been done and what hasn't; what is trite and what is fresh, what works and what just lies there dying (or dead) on the page. The more you read, the less apt you are to make a fool of yourself with your pen or word processor.
- Stephen King: On Writing
No sooner had PM's blog rankings returned to their natural state than the phone began to ring at the lushly appointed Hell Toupee compound. When my assistant picked up - okay, actually I picked up, but that was because I didn't want to seem ostentatious - I was unaware that on the other end of the line was none other than M.J. Rose herself, calling to offer her condolences for the tragic end of my short-lived reign of literary terror. Our conversation went something like this:
I Just Called to Say I Crushed You
KC: Hello?
MJR: Hello, may I speak with Keith?
KC: It depends. What are you wearing?
MJR: I beg your pardon!
KC: Wait a minute - who is this?
MJR: Ahem. It's M.J. Rose. I was just calling to--
KC: Oh! M.J.! (again raising the issue of whether both an exclamation point AND a period would be necessary after the J, but that's just something I observed while typing this. At the time, I was too flummoxed over the mistaken assumption I'd made about my caller's identity. But back to the call...) Oh! Hello! I was just - uh - kidding around, you know? With the whole what are you wearing thing. Totally kidding. I'm a big kidder. Yup, that's me. Major kidder. If I were a woman, I'd be Margot Kidder.
MJR: I see.
KC: No, really. All the time with the kidding. Seriously. I kid you not. I mean, no kidding. I mean - aw, hell - you know what I mean.
MJR: It frightens me to say that I think I actually do know what you mean, just this once. Anyway, the reason I was calling--
KC: Listen, is this about that whole spam thing?
MJR: What whole spam thing?
KC: I don't know. Have you maybe been getting, say, a little more e-mail than usual?
MJR: Well, actually, since Sunday I have been getting more junk mail, and some of it is rather disturbing. But how would you know about that?
KC: Well, there might be a chance that maybe I was sort of - I don't know - cranky that your blog went back to being more popular than mine...
MJR: And...?
KC: So maybe there's this slight chance that I might have logged on to a few, er, unusual web sites. And, you know, maybe signed you up to be on their mailing lists.
MJR: A few sites?
KC: No more than twenty or thirty. I mean, I've got dialup, and some of those sites have a ton of graphics, so they take forever to load. So I didn't really have time to hit too many of them.
MJR: And just how ... unusual were these sites?
KC: Well, I think that all depends on your definition of usual and unusual, doesn't it?
MJR: Would any of those sites perhaps focus on - and I quote - tattooed lesbian biker nuns on crack?
KC: Dude! Does that site kick ass, or what?
MJR: *Clears throat* I'd be more comfortable if you did not refer to me as dude. And FAR more comfortable if you'd refrain from any further childish pranks.
KC: Well, hold on just a sec, Miss High and Mighty. Seems like that's the pot calling the kettle an awfully dark shade of gray, know what I mean, Vern?
MJR: Vern?
KC: Man, haven't you watched ANY television?
MJR: Never mind that. What on earth are you talking about?
KC: Childish pranks. You're saying I'm the only one who stoops to that kind of thing? That you've never dabbled in anything like that?
MJR: Anything like what?
KC: Come on, M.J. - you're trying to snatch the pebble from the Master, but you haven't even done the thing where you lift the boiling pot with your wrists and carry it around a while before dropping down in the snow.
MJR: Pebble? Boiling pot? Snow? Be honest, Keith. You're on drugs. You are, aren't you? It's okay. We can get you help. But first you need to admit you have a problem.
KC: Holy crap - you haven't even watched Kung Fu? Were you raised in a ... a... library or something?
MJR: Could you PLEASE get to the point?
KC: The point is, I caught you. Red-handed. With the old etter-lay ode-cay.
MJR: Utterly okay?
KC: Etter-lay ode-cay. Jeez, don't you even speak Pig Latin? The letter code for God's sake!
MJR: (palpable silence)
KC: I mean, did you really think I wouldn't notice?
MJR: (crickets are overheard chirping)
KC: I mean, seriously. I'm the one who taught you this trick. No way I'd miss something so blatant.
MJR: I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about.
Author's note: At this point in the conversation, I feel compelled to share something with you. Something so shocking, so earthshaking, so like something that Johnny Cochrane could probably come up with a really cool rhyming slogan for, you know, if he weren't dead and all... aw, hell. I lost my train of thought.
Anyway, let's call this Exhibit A.
All will become clear momentarily. Now, back to the conversation.
KC: M.J. - it's painfully obvious to me - to any person of intellect and sensitivity, really - that you coded a secret message into the text of your last blog.
MJR: (crickets are overheard presumably engaging in the sort of activities that make little crickets)
KC: I just can't believe you felt it necessary to do that. To use the letter code that I taught you, to send a message like that to me. To send me a message that said ... ahem ... Who's your daddy?
MJR: Well?
KC: Well what?
MJR: Well, aren't you going to answer? Come on, Keith. Say it. Who's your daddy?
KC: Oh. Ahem. You are.
MJR: Say it again.
KC: You are.
MJR: Louder, please. Oh, and in case you've forgotten the question, what I asked was: who's your daddy?
KC: YOU ARE.
MJR: That's right. And don't you forget it. *click*
In Other News
It's coming.
Hell Toupee waits with bated breath (which is not, it turns out, breath that smells like worms, or shiners, or any other form of fish bait, something that would have been REALLY nice to know before I bet that guy in the bar fifty bucks that it was - but I digress...) for The Ultimate News Event.
I'm talking about the coup de grâce (or maybe coupe de ville - I never was real clear on the distinction) of what will become known as the Summer of the Shallow.
What could that be? It's simple: a single news story on CNN that involves all of the following:
• Tom Cruise
• Paris Hilton
• The runaway bride
• A severed finger served in a meal at a restaurant
That would do it. That would be the Grand Slam of the Insipid.
Throw in a Pamela Anderson or an Anna Nicole Smith, and we'd be caught up in a mental and moral vacuum, a whirling vortex of people and events so trivial, so mind-numbing, so completely without any substance whatsoever, that I suspect the United States would simply implode; sucked into a cultural black hole generated by the complete absence of anything that mattered. Talk about your weapon of mass destruction.
Fortunately, I'm not cynical or anything.
The Daily Haiku
A poem commemorating the meteoric rise and apocalyptic fall of The Blog That Would (Not) Be King:
Fun While it Lasted
Though I briefly ruled,
I am man enough to say
M.J. kicked my ass.
Nicely Put:
Constant reading will pull you into a place (a mind-set, if you like the phrase) where you can write eagerly and without self-consciousness. It also offers you a constantly growing knowledge of what has been done and what hasn't; what is trite and what is fresh, what works and what just lies there dying (or dead) on the page. The more you read, the less apt you are to make a fool of yourself with your pen or word processor.
- Stephen King: On Writing
