TWO GUYS WHO ARE SO FUNNY THEY SHOULD WRITE BOOKS OR SOMETHIN'...

From: Rob Byrnes
Sent: Wednesday, April 27, 2005 10:24 AM
To: Faustus
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE:

The way things are working out this morning, that works best for me. We will talk...

By the way, how many 'RE:'s do you think we can get into the subject line?

From: Faustus
Sent: Wednesday, April 27, 2005 10:28 AM
To: Rob Byrnes
Subject: Re: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE:

More than this?

I'll bet Jonathan Safran Foer doesn't have this much fun with e-mail. Just sayin',,,

"IF I HAD A PUBLICIST"
by Famous Author Rob Byrnes

If I had a publicist, I would pay that publicist good money to garner positive publicity for me. I would pick my publicist carefully, and develop a close relationship. While the publicist would not run my life, I would rely on his or her expertise to reap good press and avoid public relations disasters. If I were to get a bit too egomaniacal (shut up), I would hope that my publicist -- using his or her best professional judgment -- would put me back in my place.

For example, here is one hypothetical situation illustrating how our relationship might work:

Famous Author Rob Byrnes: I think I will grab the nearest microphone and criticize the Justice Department for its job in controlling organized crime.

Publicist: I do not think you should do that, Famous Author Rob Byrnes, for although you are famous Famous, you really know nothing about organized crime.

Famous Author Rob Byrnes: I most certainly do, Publicist. I wrote about it in my award-winning novel The Night We Met.

Publicist: That was a book, you nitwit Famous Author. That was not reality.

Famous Author Rob Byrnes: Oh yes. That is correct. Good catch, Publicist.

Publicist: Just doing my job, sir.

And if I were to, oh, instruct my publicist to make a pronouncement on my behalf, our relationship might work like this:

Famous Author Rob Byrnes: I would like you to issue a statement in which I criticize the hypocrisy of a Right-Wing Senator who has had a homosexual encounter with a reporter from the Washington Post, Publicist.

Publicist: While I would love to do that on your behalf, I think you may be confusing reality with your short story in Strange Bedfellows, an award-winning anthology of political erotica. You nitwit Famous Author. As your publicist, who is responsible for obtaining good publicity, I would encourage you to think carefully before asking me to issue such a statement on your behalf.

Famous Author Rob Byrnes: Oh! Good catch, Publicist. Fortunately, you have again reminded me that, even though I have strong opinions, I must not confuse my art with reality. While it is true that members of the creative community have the right -- nay, the responsibility -- to speak on important issues of the day, you have been helpful in reminding me that I should expect negative publicity if I weigh in on controversial issues with which I have little or no expertise.

Publicist: Fuck you, windbag You are correct, Famous Author. Now... shall I draw your bath?

That is how things would work if I had a publicist. The End.

Now, do you think I should send this entry to Maggie Gyllenhaal?

OH NO! I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS!!
The proposed Second Avenue Subway in Manhattan might not be built!

Looking on the bright side, at least housing prices in my neighborhood will remain affordable less insanely ridiculous for decades to come...

SO THESE TWO NURSING HOME EMPLOYEES GO INTO A BAR...
Apparently, some jokes aren't as funny as others.

Then again, there are these jokes. Meaning that it could have been worse.

THE FIVE PEOPLE YOU MEET IN J-SCHOOL
Self-Destructive Version

Jayson Blair, Janet Cooke, Stephen Glass, Mike Barnicle, Mitch Albom

[Yeah, I know, it's an old story. But it's new to me, and that's what's important.]

REPORTS OF MY DEMISE ARE PREMATURE
Hola, kids. I just wanted to pop in and tell you that I had an incredibly busy -- albeit productive -- week at work, and now I'm in Washington DC celebrating the boyfriend's birthday, which is why you haven't heard from me. I know it's been rough on you, and I'll try to make up for it next week.

But stories? Yes, I have stories. Here are a few things you can look forward to reading about next week:

* Getting a Denver boot on a Friday in DC is fun!

* How I spent a luxury weekend at the St. Regis!

* My love/hate relationship with Irene Ryan, and how she ruined my Friday Happy Hour fifty-seven years after her death!

* Strange doings on the Posh Porch! Did the new guy and that couple have a threesome? Was that woman really the result of genetically-combined DNA from Dame Judi Dench and Elaine Stritch? What was up with that guy from Lambertville? And why the fuck wasn't I invited to that party to which everyone else was invited?

* Books are fun! As Trust Fund Boys hits the store in trade paper, another blogger's book fights it for shelf space!

* Amtrak so sucks! Okay, that's not news, but I'll tell you why, anyway!

All that, and more, depending on whether or not I feel like it, is coming to TRL next week! In the meantime, enjoy your weekend, be kind to animals and old people, and... ah, hell, go ahead and kick an old person. I won't tell. Bye-bye!

Y'ALL SHOULD TAKE THIS QUIZ
Via Michele:

Your Linguistic Profile:

70% General American English

20% Yankee

5% Midwestern

5% Upper Midwestern

0% Dixie

What Kind of American English Do You Speak?

Okay -- I have to admit I cheated slightly. As a nod to my Great Lakes roots, I answered that I called carbonated soft drinks 'pop,' when, in reality, I've said 'soda' ever since moving to Manhattan eight years ago. Please don't hate me for being a conformist!

Somehow, I doubt Michael will get the same results.

NOT TO MAKE LIGHT OF TRAGEDY, BUT...
Ripped from the Department of the Patently Obvious comes this gem from the AP:

Missing Pa. D.A. Fails to Show for Work

Yup. That would explain the whole 'missing' thing. Thanks, AP.

DEBRALEE SCOTT, RIP
If the name doesn't ring a bell, you'd probably know her if you saw her. If you're Brian, you knew the name, knew the face, and wanted to marry her.

I once spent a night drinking with Debralee. At Posh. Go figure. It was a warm evening in 2000, and we were part of a large group sitting on the porch. After a few hours of heavy indulging -- including a brief breather when I was dispatched to the liquor store to pick up a few bottles of wine for her (she was good at giving orders) -- her fiance showed up to take her away for the weekend. The following year, he would die on 9/11; less than four years after that, she's gone.

So, among my great many idiosyncratic memories, I will always have the night I drank with, and ran an errand for, Cathy Shumway.

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT
Good fucking God, people, it's just blogging! Would you all get a grip?! I cannot believe how many people have been getting themselves so twisted up about blogging over the past few weeks. Christ... half my fucking blogroll has lost it. It's like the opposite of spring fever... a fever where you spend all your time in front of the computer monitor.

Guess what? Blogging is not a career. Blogging is not a love affair. Blogging is not a life. Blogging won't make you prettier or thinner or cover your bald spot. You might make some good friends through blogging, but chances are that they will just be other bloggers, and unless you're prepared to spend the rest of your life swapping links and enviously checking Technorati stats, you really should have a more diversified circle of friends.

So please stop obsessing about who did what to whom, and please stop gratuitously taking public shots at other bloggers. That's not an appropriate use of blogs and comments. Nasty remarks should be handled the way God intended: via e-mail.

Also, please stop crying because you haven't become a blogging superstar. There are probably very good reasons for that, but let me be generous and assume your blog doesn't suck, and note that there are more blogs than human beings these days, so your odds of elbowing Instapundit or Kos out of the top spot are akin to winning the Powerball fifteen times in a row. Sure, we all want readers, but it's just a fucking blog, so get over it.

Feel shunned by a blog clique? Too fucking bad. That's like being shunned by the high school chess club. Deal with it.

Think you're really cool and popular because you have lots of visitors and they leave you 58 comments every time you post an entry about the cute things your cat did last night? Uh... yeah. You're very cool and popular. Also, the high school chess club would like to stop by to slap your face for being such a smug asshole.

Blogging can be fun, and you can meet interesting people, but it's just blogging. Too many of you need to get a grip. You also need to get out of the house and live a bit. Maybe then you'll have something to blog about, instead of blogging about blogging and bloggers.

If you think this is about you, you're probably right. But get over it, because it's about more than you. And if you don't think this is about you, think again.

By the way, since I've just wasted 10 minutes of my time ranting about bloggers and blogging, it's also about me.

Now I'm going to take my own advice and get over it. Bye, now.

THOUGHT OF THE MORNING, WHILE LOOKING IN THE MIRROR

How could anything so huge fit in pants with a 33-inch waist worn by someone 6' tall?

Oh, right... pleats. Unfashionable, maybe, but necessary.

Minds out of the gutter, kids. I was referring to the backside, not the frontside.

TIME FOR A FRIDAY FUN QUIZ!
Today's challenge: come up with a thirteen-letter message about 'male genitalia'.

(I was going to ask Pat Sajak to participate, but now I don't think he'd approve.)

SOMETIMES YOU CAN JUST TELL
I don't see this relationship surviving. Call it a hunch.

Stupid 'mos.

REASON #14 WHY EDITORS SHOULD ALWAYS CHECK THE SUB-HEAD AS WELL AS THE HEADLINE


Leopard Attack May Be Linked To Wendy's Finger Case
Animal Sanctuary Employee Calls Hot Line With Tip

Oh, and you can read the story here.

"WHEN DID YOU STOP BEATING SODOMIZING YOUR WIFE?"
It was a rude question to ask, and I really regret the mental imagery it conjures up, but Antonin was wrong. The question was worthy of an answer.

DUBIOUS DISTINCTIONS
Bush, Cheney, and Rumsfeld receive an honor:

"We admire these leaders as fellow citizens who have the courage of their convictions and are willing to do the very difficult and unpopular work of living up to principles of freedom and democracy rather than accepting the expedient or popular," said Wheeler, now the head of entomology at the Natural History Museum in London.

Of course, this would probably sound a lot better if they weren't being honored by having slime-mold beetles named after them!

Congratulations on this great honor, gentlemen.

"OH, NO... I HUNT FOR THE FOOD, NOT THE SPORT."
In case you haven't heard, there are a lot of people in Wisconsin who want to hunt cats. Not just any cats, mind you; just the free-range ones.

But what if the cats decide to retaliate?


You see, this is the way it started with socially-awkward high school students, and look what happened.

CELEBRITY AMAZING RACE SPAM
This is great!

From: marah sadija [mailto:redacted0@yahoo.com]
Sent: Saturday, April 09, 2005 10:14 AM
To: redacted@redacted.net
Subject: urgent!

Dear Sir/Madam,
This mail will definitely be coming to you as a surprise, but i must crave your indulgence to introduce myself to you.I am Miss Marah sadija, former mistress to the son (Qusay) of the Iraqi former leader, Saddam Hussein.

I am an Ethiopian, by birth and i am presently in a refugee camp in Zimbabwe,where the living conditions are unbearable.I do not wish to take your time with a lenghty mail, but i have to put this proposal to you so that you can assist me. While i was still in contact with Qusay,he made a deposit in my name to a security firm in Spain, which has an affiliate branch in Amsterdam.

This deposit was made in my name and the secret code and necessary documents are presently in the possession of an attorney, presently in London. This deposit was made in the form of a consigment and the content is a considerable amount of money in United States dollars which i cannot disclose to you for security purposes, until you have confirmed your willingness to assist me.

So tempted...

AND NOW FOR THE RECUPERATION
I am very, very tired. The past two weeks have been among the longest in my life, but I think the work paid off. (Oh yeah... I'm talking about this. Keep up, okay?)

It was good to see a few bloggers around the neighborhood, though, including Jess, Marc, Jase, Mark, and Wayne (no link, because I still don't know where he hides his secret blog.) The rest of you missed a fun event.

Anyway, the event is over, but now I've got a lot of clean-up work to do. Therefore, expect limited blogging for the next few days. You'll live.

IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL

My trip to work.

My trip from work to Happy Hour.

My trip from Happy Hour to home.

One of these days I really have to see what's south of 50th Street. Seriously.

By the way, don't believe those travel times. Three minutes to travel a mile in Manhattan traffic? Maybe after the next outbreak of bubonic plague. But not today.

IN WHICH FAMOUS AUTHOR ROB BYRNES DISCOVERS A NEW WAY TO SPEND MONEY AND AVOID WORK
First, a confession: I have led a very spoiled 46 years. With the exception of a short period when I lived in a small apartment in Albany, I have always had a washer and dryer in my home or apartment. I even had this convenience in my first two apartments in Manhattan, which is unheard of, because you're usually lucky if you can fit a bed in a Manhattan apartment.

Until two years ago, that is, when I moved to my own place on the Far East Upper East Side, aka Manhattan's Student Housing District, aka Queens West.

Okay, there are a washer and dryer in the basement. But the basement is gross, and I don't like going down there. There are bugs down there. And the only access is from an outdoor staircase where pigeons like to congregate and defecate. As a result, I have fallen into the pattern of doing laundry only when necessary, and always at the last minute.

Nornally, that's merely a pain in the ass. But -- as you know, because you study this blog with the zeal of a... of a... a blog-student -- I have spent the past month working countless hours drinking planning a special event, and now I'm in the crunch.

And I'm also down to my last pair of boxer-briefs.

Okay, so that's the bad news. The good news is that it suddenly occured to me that I should take advantage of my dry cleaner's 'wash and fold' service. And now I have discovered that for $8 -- only a few dollars more than it would cost me in quarters -- I can pay someone else to do my laundry!

I do have a slight problem with the fact that strange Korean ladies will now be handling my undergarments (umm... no offense, Wayne), but I'm going to have to get past that. It's convenient, inexpensive, and will minimize my potential encounters with waterbugs, so there's really no downside.

***

Speaking of that special event -- Inside DecArts 2005 -- if you're going to be in Manhattan during the upcoming weekend, I have some good news. Friends of this blog are invited to attend any (or all) of the seminars as my guest, on a space-available basis (and I do think there will be space available.) E-mail me and I'll take care of the arrangements. 'Cause I love my readers. Truly.

REASON #43 WHY NOT TO TIP YOUR CHINESE FOOD DELIVERYMAN:
Four days is far too long to wait for sesame chicken.

IN OTHER NEWS, NICK LACHEY HAS LAUNCHED HIS CAMPAIGN FOR U.S. SENATE...
Boy band singer runs for Cincinnati mayor

Jerry Springer used to be Mayor of Cincinnati, so I suppose it all makes sense.

LET US PRAY. OR MAYBE NOT.
I guess it's a Holy Day here at TRL. First, the Pope; and now, via Spike, my agnosticism is confirmed:

You scored as agnosticism. You are an agnostic. Though it is generally taken that agnostics neither believe nor disbelieve in God, it is possible to be a theist or atheist in addition to an agnostic. Agnostics don't believe it is possible to prove the existence of God (nor lack thereof). Agnosticism is a philosophy that God's existence cannot be proven. Some say it is possible to be agnostic and follow a religion; however, one cannot be a devout believer if he or she does not truly believe. agnosticism 92% atheism 75% Islam 63% Satanism 50% Judaism 42% Buddhism 38% Paganism 33% Christianity 29% Hinduism 21% Which religion is the right one for you? (new version) created with QuizFarm.com

And once again, this admittedly lapsed Mainline Protestant is left wondering how he keeps ending up more Muslim than Catholic. I guess I'll figure it all out when I get back from Mecca...

NOW, AS THE SWEET IMBECILITIES TRIP ON MY TROUSER LEG STENDHAL ELIMINATES 'A'...
[A title that probably only MAK will get, but whatever.]

I have been having some strange dreams lately.

Saturday night, I dreamt I was hanging out with Donald Trump. (And George; Carolyn apparently had better things to do.) We were just sitting and chatting, and at a certain point I realized that, for such a busy man, The Donald had spent an awfully long amount of time with me. He had also allowed me to shake his hand, which -- in reality -- is a definite no-no for Trump, who is -- in reality -- a Howard Hughes-in-training. Then, after hanging out in a huge complex with a lot of random, generic Amazing Race and Apprentice contestants, I woke up.

Last night, I dreamt I was a newly-elected New York State Assemblyman, and I was thrilled that I would be sharing an office with my local State Senator. Together, we were going to crusade against soft drinks in the schools. Also, my former employer (then -- in reality -- a State Assemblyman, now -- in reality -- a State Senator) had just been hired to be my Chief of Staff. Heh... role-reversal.

I'm not the sort of person who believes dreams signify anything except a racing brain, but if anyone out there wants to try some amateur dream analysis, I'm interested.

**

In other, unrelated news, you probably haven't heard this, but the Pope died. Yeah, I know, I'm in shock, too. No one saw it coming.

Now, I'm not religious, and I'm not Roman Catholic, but can someone explain to me why this is so upsetting for people? (Yes, I mean you, loud girl at Posh on Friday night wailing that the Pope was too young to die in a voice that almost shattered the windows; and it's a good thing you didn't, because at Posh it would probably take them six months to replace them.)

Anyway, correct me if I'm wrong, but shouldn't the faithful be happy that the Pope has died?

Isn't that a promotion?

I'm not trying to be rude... well, maybe just a little bit, but you know I can't help myself. If you accept at face value that any Pope is going to be anti-gay and anti-abortion, JP II was about as good as a Pope is going to get. But on a theological level, I don't understand the trauma of the faithful. If the purpose of that devout life is to eventually come to Jesus, where is the tragedy?

Oh, and I have another question for the people who claim that the torrential rains that hit the New York area were God's tears for the Pope: what does God have against Northern New Jersey? Is He still upset about all those closeted homosexuals from the Ivory Coast who have taken up residence there?

I know, I know... I have a lot of questions for someone with an incurious mind.

MY LIVING WILL
It's been a bad week for famous people -- what with Johnnie Cochran, Terri Schiavo, Frank Perdue, and the Pope (oops... got ahead of myself there by about 45 minutes) all departing this mortal coil. As a Famous Author, this, of course, concerns me.

That is why I am posting my Living Will on this blog. I would also like to note that I am naming Greg and Hot Toddy as executors, because they are the only people I feel I can depend on to fully carry out its provisions.

So read it and don't weep. This is the way I want to go:

I, Famous Author Rob Byrnes, being of sound mind, hereby state that the following represents my wishes, in the event I am on life support with no reasonable possibility of recovery to a sentient state:

1. While my life may seem meaningless to you, and is certainly meaningless to me, please remember that hundreds of thousands millions of fans rely on my existence. It is therefore imperative that I be kept alive by any and all means necessary. Respirator... feeding tubes... those electric-shocky paddles... Bring it all on, kids!

2. But no pain! If there is any indication that I am experiencing pain -- or might experience pain at some indefinite time in the future -- I insist on morphine. Also, for the entire 28 years you're keeping me alive in a vegetative state, I insist on a white wine IV. Because even vegetables can get the DTs.

3. Too often, people who spend decades in bed in a vegetative state eventually are forgotten. As a Famous Author, I would consider this totally unacceptable. Therefore, please do whatever you can to turn my mannequin-like existence into a total circus. Please do everything humanly possible to involve Al Sharpton, Michael Jackson, J-Lo, Anna Nicole Smith, and Robert Blake. Oh -- and Trump, too! And please understand that while I would welcome Congressional debate over whether I should be a lifeless dead person or a lifeless live person, as a Famous Author I really think my fate should lie in the hands of the United Nations. In fact, if you really love me and respect my wishes, you'll do what you can to see that a World War is waged over me.

4. Outside my hospice, I would like the following for the duration of my vegetation: religious fanatics, angry European-style socialist protestors, rock-throwing anarchists, a bunch of fired Apprentice candidates, and a shitload of clowns riding unicycles. Also, there should be a place for bloggers in the media pool, as well as a place for Jeff Gannon Guckert.

5. In the event I absolutely have to die -- like, if decomposition has definitely set in and a bunch of doctors indicate that if they try to turn me over parts of my body will fall off -- then I would like to be sent to the mysterious place where remaindered books are pulped, and added to the... uh... well, I guess I'd be added to the pulp. That way, every time someone picked up a book written by some other author, they'd know that there is the possibility that a little bit of me lives on inside the pages, which will gross them out and, eventually, lead to the end of reading as we know it. And that would be my greatest legacy.

Thanks, kids. Muchly appreciated!