The Unswung Bat

Monday, September 18, 2006
 
News from the Court

I have a schedule document, the Fantabulous Agendums of Reginus von Kingpants (fear me! for I am He of the Kingly Pants -- pants of king-ish qualities!), hotkeyed on my laptop. Whenever I have to remember something, I simply hit the easy-to-remember combination of ctrl+shift+windows+t (for "time") and jot it down. Amazingly, it's been working out for me. When it fails, I resort to asking one of the pants' retinue to remember it for me, but they tend to ignore me and kowtow to the magist'ry of my regal pantaloons. They are a bunch'a phonies.

Today (ctrl+shift+windows+t) it tells me I must -- must, absolutely -- Read 2 chapters of my Women's Lit book (or, as my prof would harpoon me for calling them, "chapterettes"), drop off a Work-Study special application dealy-widget, and pay my VISA bill. Also, floating around with no date attached, it seems I've committed to buying me a mortar and pestle, for coffee I believe.

All these things being so, I've not much time to write right now. Yet I go on, persevering through cruel circumstance, my stride bolstered by the divine right of pants.

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Bad Press

Rosaline was afraid of the fallout.

"God, do you have any idea what the cover-up alone could mean?"

"The cover-up, do you have any idea what the exposure will do? Think about it, Ros. Hell, the longer we keep it to ourselves the more we're asking to be hushed up."

"Shhhhh!"

She didn't have a chance of changing my mind, and she knew it. It'd been such a strange trip getting all the facts, the payoff was irresistable. I can't see how there'd be any money in it, beyond the inevitable book deal and publicity, but to have my name attached to it, indelibly -- to something everyone, everyone in the world, would talk about for a long time! Forget about it. As soon as we get back to civilization, I'm running to the phones.

It all started with a damned book review. After two weeks of threats, Saul -- my editor -- finally got me to write up The Da Vinci Code.

"I don't want to," I cleverly replied, "get Mike to do it." Mike was not the brightest or most senior member of the paper, so I picked him. Saul was having none of it.

"Shut up," he adroitly shot back.

"Go to hell," I offered, I thought graciously, by way of compromise. We debated the matter till the third time he fired me, for emphasis, whereupon I conceded the point, under protest.

Once saddled with the job, I had to rush to find someone to do all the work for me. Normally there's no problem with this, since most people who actually read book reviews in the paper don't read the books, and vice-versa. I've gotten away with dozens of skim-quote-make-something-up jobs. That wouldn't work, though, since just about everybody who read the Da Vinci review was sure to read, or have already read, the god damned book, I had to find a way to make my assessment of it look convincing.

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This story has an end, really, I'll get to it.

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In my women's lit class, a pack of handouts went along the right side of the room and stopped. When the other side complained, the prof tsked "there a strong bias against the left in this class." I hate everything she stands for, except for the stuff that isn't postmodernist.

I added titles to all the "things" below. I avoided that before, having the idea that the title of the blog post, and the accompanying picture, would have some obscure bearing on the fiction scrap, and that was enough. But I just realized that, unless you read this every day (and despite obsessively going over and revising my stuff, I don't even do that) you're liable to miss stuff if you scroll down, and I want you to actually read those bits. And who knows, maybe say something in the Emergency Disaster Backup Gästbuch.


I'd be at peace, and I'd have no desire, if I'd lived right



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