vituperation

March 19, 2004

For those of you interested: the yes votes beat the no votes by a ratio of 8 to 1. Roxy lives, though that name probably won’t.

For the moment, anyway. If you were a yes’er, feel free to email me with your fawning comments. I’m still at a loss how so many positive votes came out of this.

Regularly, I joke with Robyn about the advance my book sale will get when a publisher picks it up. The running number I use is $1,700,000, which I’ll freely admit I pulled right out of my ass. And which, I’ll also freely admit, is probably about one hundred times (or more) what the real advance will be.

My agent emailed me earlier this week to tell me a publisher contacted him to find out about purchasing the English print rights for my book.

In India.

And Sri Lanka.

And Pakistan.

And Bangladesh.

And Bhutan.

And Nepal. Somebody get the Dalai Lama a copy of my book!

They haven’t made an offer yet, but they’ve floated the idea of an advance in the mid three-figures.

That’s right. Four hundred (or five hundred, if we push it) bucks.

Pheer me, and my global badass self.

Actually, I’m flattered that someone’s interested in publishing the book over there, but I find delicious irony in the fact that none of those nations really need my book.

Incidentally, if a publisher in Oz picks it up, I reserve the right to insist it be done under the name Frank.

I visited my accountant today (props to her for the super-refund this year, AND for pointing out that my old accountant missed writeoffs in the last several years that, when amended, will bring in another big chunk of money) and I’m pleased to announce that I met with her for a half-hour, and didn’t spit once.

I zinged one by the dental hygenist on Tuesday, though. That was a close one.

There’s nothing like conversing with someone you just woke up, is there?

“Hey,” I said, shaking my wife’s leg earlier today. “I’m going.”

Part of my morning ritual is to wake Robyn for a kiss before I leave for work (on weekdays; on Saturday I wake her before I go to the grocery store), because I’m such a good husband. She rolled over and squinted up at me with one bleary eye.

“I have a question,” I said. Today being Friday, I wanted to hit Bruno’s to see what sort of Little Debbie (yeah, I still eat them sometimes, believe it or not) products they offered. “If you’re standing in the front of Bruno’s–”

“I’m not going to Bruno’s,” Robyn said.

I laughed. “I know you’re not, I am. I meant the general ‘you’.”

I waited for it to sink in before continuing.

“If you’re standing in the front of Bruno’s,” I said, “isn’t the Little Debbie stuff toward the left, near the sodas?”

She considered.

“No, they’re over by the deli.”

“They are? I thought for sure they were near the drinks.”

“Well, maybe the big boxes are, but the individual ones are over by the deli.”

“Bruno’s sells the Little Debbies individual packs? You sure you’re not talking about Krispy Kremes?”

“They’re in a big case over by the deli!”

“I didn’t know they sold the individual ones there. They didn’t mention Bruno’s on the phone.”

Recently, in emails back and forth with the Media Watch folks in Australia, the producer over there suggested (as a joke) that they could send me a VHS version of the story they did about the Men’s Health thing in exchange for some Little Debbie products. I went so far as to call McKee Foods, the owners of the brand, to find a list of local stores stocking the individual packs, so I could send a nice wide selection if it pans out.

“Yeah, they’re in a glass-fronted case by the deli.”

“Why would they put the Little Debbie stuff in a glass case? You’re sure you’re not talking about the Krispy Kremes?”

“No, it’s Little Deb–”

She suddenly looked like she smelled a fart. I cackled.

“SHUT UP!” she yelled, and rolled over into the pillows.

At least now I know where the spud gets it.