_There is only one thing in life worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.
(07/08/2009) According to some nebulous publishing theorem, in order for a novel to be considered successful, it must sell five thousand copies. Initially, this seemed totally doable...I mean 5,000 didn't seem like that many. But, now with The Miracle of Myrtle: Saint Gone Wild having been in print for five full months, I would give my left tit to a witchdoctor (though I don't know why he'd need it) to hit that 5,000 mark.
To date, no Shaman has offered to trade me one of my boobs for bestseller success. And, I need notoriety now. I need press. I need national recognition...and I'm willing to commit a misdemeanor, alienate those who love me, and sacrifice any semblance of class that I have left to do it.
For example, I actually made a valid attempt to get the swine flu because I was certain that the news would pick up an ironic story about the author of a pro-pig book getting H1N1. So, I went to the Northside Walmart, which caters to a large Mexican immigrant population (Mexico currently has the highest case of outbreaks), and hung out in the produce section, touching all the avocados and tomatillos and Chupa Chups candy (cause everybody knows children are better than Petri dishes for growing diseases), and then rubbed my eyes and sucked on my fingers.
But, the gods said, "No swine flu for you." I suspect, because of the high alcohol content in my bloodstream, the germs were rendered helpless. They probably just floated around in a state of viral bliss and forgot to infect me.
Then, the other day, I tried to get carjacked. En route to a soiree, we were requested to grab a bag of ice. While everyone else ran in to SuperAmerica, I sat alone in the backseat of our running automobile. A group of thuggish boys bopped out looking suspiciously from side to side. They spied me. I rifled through my wallet revealing cash, avoided eye contact, and gave my best impression of being vulnerable. My plan--I'd let them slide into the car and drive at least fifty feet or so to make it a legitimate kidnapping, then just as they were about to pull onto Bardstown Road, I would slam the spiked heel of my floozy shoe into the driver's eye. Then, I'd club the kid on the passenger's side with the bottle of bourbon next to me (Thank God the party we were going to was BYOB), thus stunning him. Car careens to a stop. I jump out. The police show up, followed closely by the press. I say that I remember an Oprah episode that advised never to let your assailant take you to a second location. I owe Oprah my life. She hears about it. Voila! I'm famous and "Myrtle" is a bestseller.
No such dumb luck...the roughneck posse was obviously made up of poseurs. They did not even attempt to intimidate me with a lascivious look.
Publicity plan three is my most promising. I will bedeck myself in the most slutastic Myrtle garb I can get a drag queen to stitch for me, build and bedazzle a chariot, and be pulled through downtown by a team of painted pigs (rainbow striped or polka-dotted preferably) while throwing Myrtle memorabilia (tee shirts, key rings, miniature bottles of barbeque sauce) to passers-by. I will attempt this stunt in every major and minor metropolis on the Eastern seaboard. However, this plan has a few minor flaws like: I have no engineering skills, no pigs, no budget for publicity, and my Scion, though roomy, is not large enough to carry me and all the necessary accoutrement even as far as Main Street, much less Massachusetts.
(07/06/2012) I did end up getting swine flu, but it didn’t garner me a damn bit of publicity andmy beloved book sold nowhere near 5,000 copies. I still have hope that Myrtle someday will be a miniseries with guest appearances by Rosanne Barr, George Hamilton, Betty White, and Justin Bieber in drag as Mary Sue Ann. But, I have accepted the fact that it will never be a bestseller. I have not, however, accepted that I should not have my own parade float. It wasn’t quite ready for the Fourth…plus it was hot as balls, but, if all goes well, you can expect to see me in this year's Christmas festivities. I’ll be the one on the jeweled chariot with the sequined swine.
the bourbonistA, Promoting Debauchery and stamping out political-correctness one blog at a time.